
Glass_ T ^'^^i ^ 



i 



THAGKERA Y'S WORKS. - Boston Edition. 



I. Vanity Fair, and Lovel the Widower. 
II. The Virginians. 

III. Pendennis. 

IV. The Newcomes. 

V. The Adventures of Philip, and Cath- 
erine. 
VI. Henry Esmond, Barry Lyndon, and 

Denis Duval. 
VII. Roundabout Papers, and The Four 
Georges. 
VIII. Burlesques, and Yellowplush Papers. 
IX. Paris and Eastern Sketches, and The 

Irish Sketch-Book. 
X. Christmas Books, and The Hoggarty 
Diamond. 







£. ^0 V/AT 



Marshal Soult. 



/ 
THACKERAY'S COMPLETE WORKS 




V 

THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK 

OF MR. M. A. TITMARSH 



AND 



EASTERN SKETCHES 

A JOURNEY FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO 

THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK 



AND 



^ CHARACTER SKETCHES 

BY 

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 



PHILADELPHIA 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
1887 






A' 




CONTENXa 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Paob 

An Invasion of France 5 

A Caution to Travellers 16 

The Fetes of July 32 

On the French School of Painting 40 

The Painter's Bargain 58 

Cartouche 71 

On some French Fashionable Novels 82 

A Gambler's Death ^ ..'..,.,.. 102 

Napoleon and his System Ill 

The Story of Mary Ancel 124 

Beatrice Merger 142 

Caricatures and Lithography in Paris 149 

Little Poinsinet 175 

The Devil's Wager 188 

Madame Sand and the new Apocalypse 108 

The Case of Peytel 221 

Four Imitations of B^ranger 248 

French Dramas and Melodramas 258 

Meditations at Versailles . 276 



CONTENTS. 



EASTERN SKETCHES. 

Jl journey from CORNHILL to CAIRO. 
Chjlptes Page 

Dedication 293 

Preface 295 

I. Vigo. — Thoughts at Sea — Sight of Land — Vigo — 

Spanish Ground — Spanish Troops — Pasagero . . . 297 

II. Lisbon — Cadiz. — Lisbon — The Belem Road — A 
School — Landscape — Palace of Necessidades — 
Cadiz — The Rock 303 

III. The "Lady Mary Wood." — British Lions — Travel- 

ling Friends — Bishop No. 2 — " Good-by, Bishop " — 
The Meek Lieutenant — "Lady Mary Wood" . . . 311 

IV. Gibraltar. — Mess-Room Gossip — Military Horticul- 

ture — " All's Well " — A Release — Gibraltar — 
Malta — Religion and Nobility — Malta Relics — The 
Lazaretto — Death in the Lazaretto 317 

V. Athens. — Reminiscences of tvtttco — The Peirseus — 
Landscape — Basileus — England for Ever ! — Classic 
Remains — TVTrrcw again 828 

VI. Smyrna — First Glimpses of the East. — First Emo- 
tions — The Bazaar — A Bastinado — Women — The 
Caravan Bridge — Smyrna — The Whistler .... 33(3 

Vn. Constantinople. — Caiques — Eothen's " Misseri " — 
A Turkish Bath — Constantinople — His Highness the 
Sultan — Ich mochte nicht der Sultan seyn — A Sub- 
ject for a Ghazul — The Child-Murderer — Turkish 
Children — Modesty — The Seraglio — The Sultanas' 
Puffs — The Sublime Porte — The Schoolmaster in 
Constantinople 344 

Vni. Rhodes. — Jew Pilgrims— Jew Bargaining — Relics of 
Chivalry — Mahometanism Bankrupt — A Drago- 
man — A Fine Day — Rhodes 363 



CONTENTS. 

Chaptek P^gej 

IX. The White Squall 370 

X. Telmessus — Beyrout. — Telmessus — Halil Pasha — 
Beyrout — A Portrait — A Ball on Board — A Syrian 
Prince 373 

XI. A Day and Night in Syria. — Landing at Jaffa — 
Jaffa— The Cadi of Jaffa — The Cadi's Divan — A 
Night-Scene at Jaffa — Syrian Night's Entertainments 380 

XII. From Jaffa to Jerusalem. — A Cavalcade — March- 
ing Order — A Tournament — Ramleh — Roadside 
Sketches — Rencontres — Abou Gosh — Night before 
Jerusalem 387 

XIII. Jerusalem. — A Pillar of the Church — Quarters — 

Jewish Pilgrims — Jerusalem Jews — English Service 

— Jewish History — The Church of the Sepulchre — 
The Porch of the Sepulchre — Greek and Latin 
Legends — The Church of the Sepulchre — Bethlehem 

— The Latin Convent — The American Consul — 
Subjects for Sketching — Departure — A Day's March 

— Ramleh 395 

XIV. From Jaffa to Alexandria. — Bill of Fare — From 

Jaffa to Alexandria 413 

XV. To Cairo. — The Nile — First Sight of Cheops — The 
Ezbekieh — The Hotel d' Orient — The Conqueror 
Waghorn — Architecture — The Chief of the Hag — 
A Street-Scene — Arnaoots — A Gracious Prince — 
The Screw-Propeller in Egypt — The " Rint " in 
Egypt — The Maligned Orient — " The Sex " — Sub- 
jects for Painters — Slaves — A Hyde Park Moslem — 
Glimpses of the Harem — An Eastern Acquaintance — 
An Egyptian Dinner — Life in the Desert — From the 
Top of the Pyramid — Groups for Landscape — Pig- 
mies and Pyramids — Things to think of — Finis . . 418 



CONTENTS. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK 
OF 1842. 

CHAPTia Paob 

Dedication 3 

I. A Summer Day in Dublin, or There and Thereabouts . 5 
II. A Country-house in Kildare — Sketches of an Irish 

Family and Farm 25 

III. From Carlow to Waterford 34 

IV. From Waterford to Cork 44 

V. Cork — The Agricultural Show— Father Mathew. . . 53 

VI. Cork — The Ursuline Convent 61 

VII. Cork 68 

VIII. From Cork to Bantry; with an Account of the City of 

Skibbereen 80 

IX. Rainy Days at Glengariff 90 

X. From Glengariff to Killarney 96 

XI. Killarney — Stag-hunting on the Lake 104 

XII. Killarney — The Races — Muckross 109 

XIII. Tralee — Listowel — Tarbert 118 

XIV. Limerick 123 

XV. Galway — ''Kilroy's Hotel" — Galway Nights' Enter- 
tainments — First Night : An Evening with Captain 

Freeny 135 

XVI. More Rain in Galway — A Walk there — And the Second 

Galway Night's Entertainment 153 



CONTENTS. 

Chapter Paob 

XVII. From Galway to Ballinahinch 175 

XVIII. Roundstone Petty Sessions 186 

XIX. Clifden to Westport 190 

XX. Westport 196 

XXI. The Pattern at Croaghpatrick 200 

XXII. From Westport to Ballinasloe 205 

XXIII. Ballinasloe to Dublin 209 

XXIV. Two Days in Wicklow 213 

XXV. Country Meetings in Kildare — Meath — Drogheda . 229 

XXVI. Dundalk 242 

XXVII. Newry, Armagh, Belfast — From Dundalk to Newry 255 

XXVIII. Belfast to the Causeway 266 

XXIX. The Giant's Causeway — Coleraine — Portrush . . 275 

XXX. Peg of Limavaddy 285 

XXXI. Templemoyle — Derry 289 

XXXn. Dublin at Last 301 



CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

Captain Rook and Mr. Pigeon 315 

The Fashionable Authoress 332 

The Artists 345 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Pagk 

Mabshal Soult 11 

Porte St. Denis 1^ 

Place de la Concorde ^2 

Palace of the Luxembourg ^^ 

Colonnade op the Louvre « . 51 

The Directory Established 113 

Old Houses in Strasburg 127 

Versailles 276 

" Drunken Women from Paris " 278 

Galleries of Versailles 281 

Madame de la Valli^re .... ... 282 

The Little Trianon of Marie Antoinette .... 289 



EASTERN SKETCHES. 

Egypt ........ , ... 297 

Entrance to the Convent of Belem <,.,,. 306 

Tower of Belem 307 

The Rock of Gibraltab 310 

Athens 330 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Paob 
Constantinople g^^ 

An Interiob in the Sekaglio 347 

Summer Palace, Constantinople 353 

Habbok of Rhodes ogo 



Fortifications of Rhodes 



Interior op a Mosque 



366 



The Knight's Street 3gg 

Gate of the Grand Master's Palacb 368 

Aceldama ^qj^ 

Arab Fountain in Jerusalem ^.qo 

The Four Leaders of the First Crusade 403 

Egyptian Villa 4jq 



423 



Mafra ^^ 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK 
or 1842. 

Paox 

*Two Irish Ladies" 22 

The Court-House at Waterford 46 

A Car to Killarnet 96 

The Market at Killarnet 104 

Chapel at Tralbe 120 

Gazing at the Cab 181 



THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



DEDICATORY LETTER 

TO 

M. ARETZ, TAILOR, Etc. 

27, RUE RICHELIEU, PARIS. 



Sir, — It becomes every man in his station to acknowledge 
and praise virtue wheresoever he may find it, and to point it 
out for the admiration and example of his fellow-men. 

Some months since, when you presented to the writer of 
these pages a small account for coats and pantaloons manu- 
factured by you, and when 3^ou were met by a statement from 
your creditor, that an immediate settlement of your bill would 
be extremely inconvenient to him; your reply was, " Mon 
Dieu. Sir, let not that annoy you ; if you want money, as a 
gentleman often does in a strange country, I have a thousand- 
franc note at my house which is quite at your service." 

History or experience, Sir, makes us acquainted with so 
few actions that can be compared to yours, — an offer hke this 
from a stranger and a tailor seems to me so astonishing, — 
that you must pardon me for thus making your virtue public, 
and acquainting the English nation with your merit and j'our 
name. Let me add, Sir, that you live on the first floor; that 
your clothes and fit are excellent, and your charges moderate 
and just ; and, as a humble tribute .^f my admiration, permit 
me to lay these volumes at j^our feet. 

Your obliged, faithful servant, 

M. A. TITMARSH. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



About half of the sketches in these vohimes have ah-eady 
appeared in print, in various periodical works. A part of the 
text of one tale, and the plots of two others, have been bOT- 
rowed from French originals ; the other stories, which are, in 
the main, true, have been written upon facts and characters 
tfcftt came within the Author's observation during a residence 
in Paris. 

As the remaining papers relate to public events which 
o»ccurred during the same period, or to Parisian Art and 
Literature, he has ventured to give his publication the title 
which it bears. 

LozTDON, July 1, 1840. 



AN INVASION OF FEANCE. 



" Caesar venit in Galliam summS, diligentift." 

About twelve o'clock, just as the bell of the packet is tolling 
a farewell to London Bridge, and warning off the blackguard- 
boys with the newspapers, who have been shoving Times, Herald, 
Penny Paul- Pry, Penny Satirist, Flare-up, and other abomina- 
tions, into your face — just as the bell has tolled, and the Jews, 
strangers, people- taking-leave-of-their-families, and blackguard- 
boys aforesaid, are making a rush for the narrow plank which 
conducts from the paddle-box of the " Emerald" steamboat 
unto the qua}^ — you perceive, staggering down Thames Street, 
those two hackne3"-coaches, for the arrival of which 3^ou have 
been praying, trembling, hoping, despairing, swearing — sw — , 
I beg your pardon, I believe the word is not used in polite com- 
pany — and transpiring, for the last half-hour. Yes, at last, 
the two coaches draw near, and from thence an awful number 
of trunks, children, carpet-bags, nursery-maids, hat-boxes, band- 
boxes, bonnet-boxes, desks, cloaks, and an affectionate wife, are 
discharged on the quay. 

" Elizabeth, take care of Miss Jane," screams that worthy 
woman, who has been for a fortnight emplo3^ed in getting this 
tremendous bod}' of troops and baggage into marching order. 
*' Hicks! Hicks! for heaven's sake mind the babies!"-— 
"George — Edward, sir, if you go near that porter with the 
trunk, he will tumble down and kill 3^ou, you naught3' boy ! — 
M3' love, do take the cloaks and umbrellas, and give a hand to 
Fanny and Lucy ; and I wish you would speak to the hackney- 
coachmen, dear, they want fifteen shillings, and count the pack- 
ages, love — twenty-seven packages, — and bring little Flo ; 
Where's little Flo? — Flo! Flo!" — (Flo comes sneaking in; 



6 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

she has been speaking a few parting words to a one-eyed terrier, 
that sneaks off similarl}-, landward.) 

As when the hawk menaces the hen-roost, in like manner, 
when such a danger as a voyage menaces a mother, she becomes 
suddenly' endowed with a ferocious presence of mind, and brist- 
ling up and screaming in the front of her brood, and in the face 
of circumstances, succeeds, by her courage, in putting her 
enemy to flight ; in like manner 3'ou will always, 1 think, find 
3'our wife (if that lady be good for twopence) shrill, eager, and 
ill-humored, before, and during a great famil}^ move of this 
nature. Well, the swindling hackney-coachmen are paid, the 
mother leading on her regiment of little ones, and supported by 
her auxiliar}^ nurse-maids, are safe in the caljin ; — you have 
counted twent3'-six of the twentj-seven parcels, and have them 
on board, and that horrid man on the paddle-box, who, for 
twent}^ minutes past, has been roaring out, NOW, SIR ! — says, 
now^ sir^ no more. 

I never yet knew how a steamer began to move, being 
alwa^ys too busj^ among the trunks and children, for the first 
half-hour, to mark an}' of the movements of the vessel. When 
these private arrangements are made, you find 3'ourself opposite 
Greenwich (farewell, sweet, sweet whitebait !), and quiet begins 
to enter your soul. Your wife smiles for the first time these ten 
days ; you pass by plantations of ship-masts, and forests of 
steam-chimnej'S ; the sailors are singing on board the ships, the 
bargees salute 3'ou with oaths, grins, and phrases facetious and 
familiar ; the man on the paddle-box roars, ^' Ease her, stop 
her ! " which m3'sterious words a shrill voice from below repeats, 
and pipes out, "Ease her, stop her!" in echo; the deck is 
crowded with groups of figures, and the sun shines over all. 

The sun shines over all, and the steward comes up to sa3^, 
" Lunch, ladies and gentlemen! Will an3^ lad3' or gentleman 
please to take any think ? " About a dozen do : boiled beef and 
pickles, and great red raw Cheshire cheese, tempt the epicure : 
little dumpy bottles of stout are produced, and fizz and bang 
about with a spirit one would never have looked for in individu- 
als of their size and stature. 

The decks have a strange look ; the people on them, that is. 
Wives, elderty stout husbands, nurse-maids, and children pre- 
dominate, of course, in English steamboats. Such maybe con- 
sidered as the distinctive marks of the English gentleman at 
three or four and forty : two or three of such groups have 
pitched their camps on the deck. Then there are a number of 
3^oung men, of whom three or four have allowed their mous- 



AN INVASION OF FRANCE. 7 

taches to begin to grow since last Friday ; for they are going 
" on the Continent," and they look, therefore, as if then* upper 
h]3S were smeared with snuff*. 

A danseuse from the opera is on her way to Paris. Followed 
by her bonne and her little dog, she paces the deck, stepping 
out, in the real dancer fashion, and ogling all around. How 
happy the two young EngUshmen are, who can speak French, 
and make up to her : and how all criticise her points and paces ! 
Yonder is a group of 3'oung ladies, who are going to Paris to 
learn how to be governesses : those two splendidly dressed ladies 
are milliners from the Rue Richeheu, who have just brought 
over, and disposed of, their cargo of Summer fashions. Here 
sits the Rev. Mr. Snodgrass with his pupils, whom he is con- 
ducting to his establishment, near Boulogne, where, in addition 
to a classical and mathematical education (washing included), 
the 3^oung gentlemen have the benefit of learning French among 
the French themselves. Accordingl} , the 3'oung gentlemen are 
locked up in a great rickety house, two miles from Boulogne 
and never see a soul, except the French usher and the cook. 

Some few French people are there already, preparing to be 
ill — (I never shall forget a dreadful sight I once had in the 
little dark, dirty, six-foot cabin of a Dover steamer. Four 
gaunt Frenchmen, but for their pantaloons, in the costume of 
Adam in Paradise, solemnly anointing themselves with some 
charm against sea-sickness !) — a few Frenchmen are there, but 
these, for the most part, and with a proper philosophy, go to the 
fore-cabin of the ship, and jou see them on the fore-deck (is that 
the name for that part of the vessel which is in the region of the 
bowsprit?) lowering in huge cloaks and caps ; snuff"y, wretched, 
pale, and wet ; and not jabbering now, as their wont is on shore. 
I never could fanc}^ the Mounseers formidable at sea. 

There are, of course, many Jews on board. Who ever 
travelled by steamboat, coach, diligence, eilwagen, vetturino, 
mule-back, or sledge, without meeting some of the wandering 
race? 

By the time these remarks have been made the steward is on 
the deck again, and dinner is ready : and about two hours after 
dinner comes tea ; and then there is brand3'-and- water, which he 
eagerly presses as a preventive against what may happen ; and 
about this time you pass the Foreland, the wind blowing pretty 
fresh ; and the groups on deck disappear, and your wife, giv- 
ing you an alarmed look, descends, with her little ones, to the 
ladies' cabin, and you see the steward and his boys issuing from 
their den under the paddle-box, with each a heap of round tin 



8 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Tases, like those which are called, I believe, in America, txp^c- 
toratoons, only these are larger. 

The wind blows, the water looks greener and more beautiful 
than ever — ridge by ridge of long white rock passes away. 
"That's Ramsgit," says the man at the helm ; and, presently, 
" That there's Deal — it's dreadful fallen off since the war ; " 
and "That's Dover, round that there pint, only you can't see 
it." And, in the meantime, the sun has plumped his hot face 
into the water, and the moon has shown hers as soon as ever his 
back is turned, and Mrs. — (the wife in general,) has brought 
up her children and self from the horrid cabin, in which she 
says it is impossible to breathe ; and the poor little wretches 
are, by the officious stewardess and smart steward (expecto- 
ratoonifer) , accommodated with a heap of blankets, pillows, and 
mattresses, in the midst of which they crawl, as best they may, 
and from the heaving heap o^" which are, during the rest of the 
voyage, heard occasional faint cries, and sounds of puking 
woe ! 

Dear, dear Maria ! Is this the woman who, anon, braved 
the jeers and brutal wrath of swindling hackney-coachmen ; 
who repelled the insolence of haggling porters, with a scorn that 
brought down their demands at least eighteenpence ? Is this 
the woman at whose voice servants tremble ; at the sound of 
whose steps the nurserj^ ay, and mayhap the parlor, is in order ? 
Look at her now, prostrate, prostrate — no strength has she to 
speak, scarce power to push to her youngest one — her suffering, 
struggling Rosa, — to push to her the — the instrumentoon ! 

In the midst of all these throes and agonies, at which all the 
passengers, who have their own woes (you 3'ourself — for how 
can you help them'^ — you are on your back on a bench, and if 
you move all is up with you,) are looking on indifferent — one 
man there is who has been watching you with the utmost care, 
and bestowing on your helpless family the tenderness that a 
father denies them. He is a foreigner, and you have been con- 
versing with him, in the course of the morning, in French — 
which, he sa3'S, you speak remarkably well, like a native in 
fact, and then in EngUsh (which, after all, 3'ou find is more 
convenient) . What can express 3^our gratitude to this gentle- 
man for all his goodness towards j^our family and 3'ourself — 
you talk to him, he has served under the Emperor, and is, for 
all that, sensible, modest, and well-informed. He speaks, in- 
deed, of his countrymen almost with contempt, and readily 
admits the superiority of a Briton, on the seas and elsewhere. 



AN INVASION OF FRANCE. 9 

One loves to meet with such genuine liberality in a foreigner, 
and respects the man who can sacrifice vanity to truth. This 
distinguished foreigner has travelled much; he asks whither 
you are going ? — where you stop ? if you have a great quantity 
of luggage on board ? — and laughs when he hears of the twenty- 
seven packages, and hopes you have some friend at the custom- 
house, who can spare you the monstrous trouble of unpacking 
that which has taken you weeks to put up. Nine, ten, eleven, 
the distinguished foreigner is ever at your side ; you find him 
now, perhaps, (with characteristic ingratitude,) something of a 
bore, but, at least, he has been most tender to the children and 
their mamma. At last a Boulogne light comes in sight, (you 
see it over the bows of the vessel, when, having bobbed violently 
upwards, it sinks swiftly down,) Boulogne harbor is in sight, 
and the foreigner says, — 

The distinguished foreigner says, says he — " Sare, eef you 
af no 'otel, I sail recommend you, milor, to ze 'Otel Betfort, in 
ze Quay, sare, close to the bathing-machines and custom-ha- 
oose. ' Good bets and fine garten, sare ; table-d'hote, sare, k 
cinq heures; breakfast, sare, in French or EngUsh style; — I 
am the commissionaire, sare, and vill see to your loggish." 

. . . Curse the fellow, for an impudent, swindhng, sneaking 
French humbug ! ~ Your tone instantly changes, and you tell 
him to go about his business : but at twelve o'clock at night, 
when the voyage is over, and the custom-house business done, 
knowing not whither to go, with a wife and fourteen exhausted 
children, scarce able to stand, and longing for bed, you find 
yourself, somehow, in the Hotel Bedford (and 3^ou can't be 
better) , and smiling chambermaids carry off your children to 
snug beds; while smart waiters produce for your honor — a 
cold fowl, say, and a salad, and a bottle of Bordeaux and 
Seltzer-water. 

The morning comes — I don't know a pleasanter feeling than 
that of waking with the sun shining on objects quite new, and 
(although you have made the voyage a dozen times,) quite 
strange. Mrs. X. and you occupy a very light bed, which has 
a tall canopy of red ''percale ; " the windows are smartly draped 
with cheap gaudy calicoes and muslins ; there are little mean 
strips of carpet about the tiled floor of the room, and yet all 
seems as gay and as comfortable as may be — the sun shines 
brighter than jow have seen it for a year, the sky is a thousand 
times bluer, and what a cheery clatter of shrill quick French 
voices comes up from the court-yard under the windows ! Bells 



10 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

are jangling ; a famil}-, mayhap, is going to Paris, en poste, and 
wondrous is the jabber of the courier, the postiUon, the inn- 
waiters, and the lookers-on. The landlord calls out for " Quatre 
biftecks aux pommes pour le trente-trois," — (O my country- 
men, I love your tastes and your ways !) — the chambermaid is 
laughing and says, " Finissez done. Monsieur Pierre ! " (what 
can thej^ be about?) — a fat Englishman has opened his window 
violently, and says, " Dee dong, garsong, vooly voo me donny 
lo sho, ou vooly voo pah?" He has been ringing for half an 
hour — the last energetic appeal succeeds, and shortly he is 
enabled to descend to the coifee-room, where, with three hot 
rolls, grilled ham, cold fowl, and four boiled eggs, he makes 
what he calls his first French breakfast. 

It is a strange, mongrel, merry place, this town of Boulogne ; 
the little French fishermen's children are beautiful, and the 
little French soldiers, four feet high, red-breeched, with huge 
pompons on their caps, and brown faces, and clear sharp eyes, 
look, for all their littleness, far more military and more intelli- 
gent than the heavy louts one has seen swaggering about the 
garrison towns in England. Yonder go a crowd of bare-legged 
fishermen ; there is the town idiot, mocking a woman who is 
screaming " Fleuve du Tage," at an inn-window, to a harp, 
and there are the little gamins mocking him. Lo ! these seven 
young ladies, with red hair and green veils, they are from 
neighboring Albion, and going to bathe. Here comes three 
Englishmen, habitues evidently of the place, — dandy specimens 
of our countrymen : one wears a marine dress, another has a 
shooting dress, a third has a blouse and a pair of guiltless 
spurs — all have as much hair on the face as nature or art can 
supply, and all wear their hats very much on one side. Believe 
me, there is on the face of this world no scamp like an English 
one, no blackguard like one of these half-gentlemen, so mean, 
so low, so vulgar, — so ludicrously ignorant and conceited, so 
desperately heartless and depraved. 

But why, my dear sir, get into a passion? — Take things 
coolly. As the poet has observed, "Those only is gentlemen 
who behave as sich ; " with such, then, consort, be they cobblers 
or dukes. Don't give us, cries the patriotic reader, any abuse 
of our fellow-countrymen (anybod}- else can do that), but rather 
continue in that good-humored, facetious, descriptive style with 
which 3^our letter has commenced. — Your remark, sir, is per- 
fectly just, and does honor to 3^our head and excellent heart. 

There is little need to give a description of the good town of 
Boulogne, which, haute and basse, with the new light-house and 




PORTE ST. DENIS. 



AN INVASION OF FRANCE. 11 

the new harbor, and the gas-lamps, and the manufactures, and 
the convents, and the number of EngUsh and French residents, 
and the pillar erected in honor of the grand Armee d'Angleterre, 
so called because it didn't go to England, have all been excel- 
lently described by the facetious Coglan, the learned Dr. Mil- 
lingen, and by innumerable guide-books besides. A fine thing 
it is to hear the stout old Frenchmen of Napoleon's time argue 
how that audacious Corsican would have marched to London, 
after swallowing Nelson and all his gun-boats, but for cette mal- 
heureuse guerre cVEspagne and cette glorieuse campagne d'Autriche^ 
which the gold of Pitt caused to be raised at the Emperor's tail, 
in order to call him off from the helpless country in his front. 
Some Frenchmen go farther stiU, and vow that in Spain they 
were never beaten at all ; indeed, if you read in the Biographie 
des Hommes du Jour^ article " Soult," 3'^ou will fancy that, with 
the exception of the disaster at Vittoria, the campaigns in Spain 
and Portugal were a series of triumphs. Onl}^, by looking at 
a map, it is observable that Vimeiro is a mortal long way from 
Toulouse, where, at the end of certain 3^ears of victories, we 
somehow find the honest Marshal. And what then? — he 
went to Toulouse for the purpose of beating the English there, 
to be sure ; — a known fact, on which comment would be su- 
perfluous. However, we shall never get to Paris at this rate ; 
let us break off further palaver, and away at once. . . . 

(During this pause, the ingenious reader is kindly requested 
to pay his bill at the Hotel at Boulogne, to mount the Dihgence 
of Laflatte, Caillard and Company, and to travel for twenty-five 
hours, amidst much jingling of harness-bells and screamiiag of 
postilions.) 

The French miUiner, who occupies one of the corners, be- 
gins to remove the greasy pieces of paper which have enveloped 
her locks during the journey. She withdraws the ' ' Madras " 
of dubious hue which has bound her head for the last five-and- 
twenty hours, and replaces it by the black velvet bonnet, which, 
bobbing against your nose, has hung from the Diligence roof 
since your departure from Boulogne. The old lady in the oppo- 
site corner, who has been sucking bonbons, and smells dread- 
fully of anisette, arranges her little parcels in that immense 
basket of abominations which all old women carry in their laps. 
She rubs her mouth and eyes with her dusty cambric hand- 
kerchief, she ties up her nightcap into a little bundle, and re- 
places it by a more becoming head-piece, covered with withered 
artificial flowers, and crumpled tags of ribbon ; she looks wist- 



12 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

fully at the company for an instant, and then places her hand- 
kerchief before her mouth : — her eyes roll strangely about for 
an instant, and 3^ou hear a faint clattering noise : the old lady 
has been getting ready her teeth, which had lain in her basket 
among the bonbons, pins, oranges, pomatum, bits of cake, loz- 
enges, prayer-books, peppermint- water, copper money, and 
false hair — stowed away there during the voyage. The Jewish 
gentleman, who has been so attentive to the milliner during the 
journey, and is a traveller and bagman b}^ profession, gathers 
together his various goods. The sallow-faced English lad, who 
has been drunk ever since we left Boulogne yesterda}^, and is 
coming to Paris to pursue the stud}^ of medicine, swears that he 
rejoices to leave the cursed DiHgence, is sick of the infernal 
journey, and d — d glad that the d — d voyage is so nearly over. 
" Enfin! " says your neighbor, yawning, and inserting an elbow 
into the mouth of his right and left hand companion, ''''nous 
voila.^^ 

Nous VoiLA ! — We are at Paris ! This must account for 
the removal of the milliner's curl-papers, and the fixing of the 
old lady's teeth. — Since the last relais^ the Diligence has been 
travelling with extraordinary speed. The postilion cracks his 
terrible whip, and screams shrill}^ The conductor blows in- 
cessantty on his horn, the bells of the harness, the bumping and 
ringing of the wheels and chains, and the clatter of the great 
hoofs of the heavj^ snorting Norman stallions, have wondrously 
increased within this, the last ten minutes ; and the Diligence, 
which has been proceeding hitherto at the rate of a league in 
an hour, now dashes gallantly forward, as if it would traverse at 
least six miles in the same space of time. Thus it is, when 
Sir Robert maketh a speech at Saint Stephen's — he useth his 
strength at the beginning, only, and the end. He gallopeth at 
the commencement ; in the middle he lingers ; at the close, 
again, he rouses the House, which has fallen asleep ; he crack- 
eth the whip of his satire ; he shouts the shout of his patriotism ; 
and, urging his eloquence to its roughest canter, awakens the 
sleepers, and inspires the weary, until men say. What a won- 
drous orator ! What a capital coach ! We will ride henceforth 
in it, and in no other ! 

But, behold us at Paris ! The Diligence has reached a rude- 
looking gate, or grille^ flanked by two lodges ; the French 
Kings of old made their entry b}^ this gate ; some of the hottest 
battles of the late revolution were fought before it. At pres- 
ent, it is blocked by carts and peasants, and a busy crowd of 
men, in green, examining the packages before they enter, 



AN INVASION OF FRANCE. 13 

probing the straT^ with long needles. It is the Barrier of St. 
Denis, and the green men are the customs'-men of the city of 
Paris. If you are a countryman, who would introduce a cow 
into the metropolis, the city demands twenty-four francs for 
such a privilege : if you have a hundredweight of tallow-candles, 
you must, previously, disbui'se three francs : if a drove of hogs, 
nine francs per whole hog : but upon these subjects Mr. Bul- 
wer, Mrs. TroUope, and other writers, have already enlight- 
ened the public. In the present instance, after a momentary 
pause, one of the men in green mounts by the side of the con- 
ductor, and the ponderous vehicle pursues its journey. 

The street which we enter, that of the Faubourg St. Denis, 
presents a strange contrast to the dark uniformity of a London 
street, where everything, in the dingy and smok}^ atmosphere, 
looks as though it were painted in India-ink — black houses, 
black passengers, and black sky. Here, on the contrar}^, is a 
thousand times more life and color. Before 3'ou, shining in the 
sun, is a long glistening line of gutter^ — not a ver}^ pleasing 
object in a city, but in a picture invaluable. On each side are 
houses of all dimensions and hues ; some but of one story ; 
some as high as the tower of Babel. From these the haber- 
dashers (and this is their favorite street) flaunt long strips of 
gaudy calicoes, which give a strange air of rude gayety to the 
street. Milk- women, with a little crowd of gossips round each, 
are, at this early hour of morning, selling the chief material of 
the Parisian cafe-au-lait. Gay wine-shops, painted red, and 
smartly decorated with vines and gilded railings, are filled with 
workmen taking their morning's draught. That gloomy-looking 
prison on 3^our right is a prison for women ; once it was a con- 
vent for Lazarists : a thousand unfortunate individuals of the 
softer sex now occup}' that mansion : they bake, as we find in 
the guide-books, the bread of all the other prisons ; they mend 
and wash the shirts and stockings of all the other prisoners ; the}^ 
make hooks- and-eyes and phosphorus-boxes, and they attend 
chapel ever}^ Sunda}^ : — if occupation can help them, sure they 
have enough of it. Was it not a great stroke of the legislature 
to superintend the morals and linen at once, and thus keep 
these poor creatures continually mending ? — But we have passed 
the prison long ago, and are at the Porte St. Denis itself. 

There is only time to take a hasty glance as we pass : it 
commemorates some of the wonderful feats of arms of Ludovi- 
cus Magnus, and abounds in ponderous allegories — nymphs, 
and river-gods, and pyramids crowned with fleurs-de-lis ; Louis 
passing over the Rhine in triumph, and the Dutch Lion giving 



14 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

up the ghost, in the year of our Lord 1672. The Dutch Lion 
revived, and overcame the man some j'ears afterwards ; but of 
this fact, singularly enough, the inscriptions make no mention. 
Passing, then, roundihe gate, and not under it (after the general 
custom, in respect of triumphal arches), you cross the boulevard, 
which gives a glimpse of trees and sunshine, and gleaming 
white buildings ; then, dashing down the Rue de Bourbon Ville- 
neuve, a dirty street, which seems interminable, and the Rue 
St. Eustache, the conductor gives a last blast on his horn, and 
the great vehicle clatters into the court-3^ard, where the journey 
is destined to conclude. 

If there was a noise before of screaming postilions and 
cracked horns, it was nothing to the Babel-like clatter which 
greets us now. We are in a great court, which Hajji Baba 
would call the father of Diligences. Half a dozen other coaches 
arrive at the same minute — no light affairs, like 3^our English 
vehicles, but ponderous machines, containing fifteen passengers 
inside, more in the cabriolet, and vast towers of luggage on the 
roof : others are loading : the 3'ard is filled with passengers 
coming or departing ; — bustling porters and screaming com- 
missionaires. These latter seize you as 3'ou descend from 3'our 
place, — twenty cards are thrust into your hand, and as man3^ 
voices, jabbering with inconceivable swiftness, shriek into 3'our 
ear, '' Dis way, sare ; are 3^ou for ze ' 'Otel of Rhin? ' ' Hotel de 
VAmiraute!^ — 'Hotel Bristol,' sare! — Monsieur^ '•V Hotel de 
Lille ? ' Sacr-rrre ^nom de DieUs laissez passer ce petit ^ Mo7isieur ! 
Ow mosh loggish ave you, sare? " 

And now, if 3^ou are a stranger in Paris, listen to the words 
of Titmarsh. — If you cannot speak a syllable of French, and 
love English comfort, clean rooms, breakfasts, and waiters ; if 
you would have plentiful dinners, and are not particular (as how 
should you be?) concerning wine; if, in this foreign country, 
3^ou will have your English companions, 3^our porter, 3^our 
friend, and 3'Our brandy-and-water — do not listen to any of 
these commissioner fellows, but with 3'our best English accent, 
shout out boldly, " Meurice ! " and straightway a man will 
step forward to conduct 3'ou to the Rue de Rivoli. 

Here you will find apartments at an}^ price : a very neat 
room, for instance, for three francs dail3^ ; an English breakfast 
of eternal boiled eggs, or grilled ham ; a nondescript dinner, 
profuse but cold ; and a society which will rejoice 3^our heart. 
Here are 3''0ung gentlemen from the universities ; 3'oung mer- 
chants on a lark ; large families of nine daughters, with fat 
father and mother ; officers of dragoons, and lawyers' clerks. 



AN INVASION OF FRANCE. 15 

The last time we dined at " Meurice's " we hobbed and nobbed 
with no less a person than Mr. Moses, the celebrated bailiff of 
Chancery Lane ; Lord Brougham was on his right, and a clergy- 
man's lady, with a train of white-haired girls, sat on his left, 
wonderfully taken with the diamond rings of the fascinating 
stranger ! 

It is, as you will perceive, an admirable way to see Paris, 
especially if you spend your days reading the English papers 
at Galignani's, as many of our foreign tourists do. 

But all this is promiscuous, and not to the purpose. If, — to 
continue on the subject of hotel choosing, — if you love quiet, 
heavy bills, and the best tahle-dliote in the city, go, O stranger ! 
to the " Hotel des Princes ; " it is close to the Boulevard, and 
convenient for Frascati's. The "Hotel Mirabeau" possesses 
scarcely less attraction ; but of this you will find, in Mr. Bul- 
wer's "Autobiography of Pelham," a faithful and complete 
account. " Lawson's Hotel" has likewise its merits, as also 
the "Hotel de Lille," which may be described as a " second 
chop " Meurice. 

If you are a poor student come to study the humanities, or 
the pleasant art of amputation, cross the water forthwith, and 
proceed to the " Hotel Corneille," near the Odt^on, or others of 
its species ; there are man}' where 3'ou can live royally (until 
3'Ou economize by going into lodgings) on four francs a day ; 
and where, if \)\ an}' strange chance you are desirous for a 
while to get rid of j'our countrymen, 3'ou will find that they 
scarcely ever penetrate. 

But above all, O mj' countrymen ! shun boarding-houses, 
especially if j^ou have ladies in your train ; or ponder well, and 
examine the characters of the keepers thereof, before you lead 
your innocent daughters, and their mamma, into places so 
dangerous. In the first place, you have bad dinners ; and, 
secondly, bad company. If 3-ou pla3^ cards, 3^ou are verylikeh' 

playing with a swindler ; if you dance, you dance with a 

person with whom you had better have nothing to do. 

Note (which ladies are requested not to read). — In one of these estab- 
lishments, daily advertised as most eligible for English, a friend of the 
writer lived. A lady, who had passed for some time as the wife of one of 
the inmates, suddenly changed her husband and name, her original husband 
remaining in the house, and saluting her by her new title. 



A CAUTION TO TEAVELLERS. 



A MILLION dangers and snares await the traveller, as soon as 
he issues out of that vast messagerie which we have just quitted : 
and as each man cannot do better than relate such events as 
have happened in the course of his own experience, and may 
keep the unwary from the path of danger, let us take this, the 
very earliest opportunit}^ of imparting to the public a little of 
the wisdom which we painfully have acquired. 

And first, then, with regard to the city of Paris, it is to be 
remarked, that in that metropolis flourish a greater number of 
native and exotic swindlers than are to be found in any other 
European nursery. What young Enghshman that visits it, but 
has not determined, in his heart, to have a little share of the 
gayeties that go on — just for once, just to see what they are 
like ? How many, when the horrible gambling dens were open, 
did resist a sight of them? — na}-, was not a young fellow 
rather flattered by a dinner invitation from the Salon, whither 
he went, fondly pretending that he should see ' ' French so- 
ciety," in the persons of certain Dukes and Counts who used to 
frequent the place ? 

My friend Pogson is a 3'oung fellow, not much worse, 
although perhaps a little weaker and simpler than his neigh- 
bors ; and coming to Paris with exactly the same notions that 
bring manj^ others of the British j-outh to that capital, events 
befell him there, last winter, which are strictly true, and shall 
here be narrated, by way of warning to all. 

Pog, it must be premised, is a city man, who travels in 
drugs for a couple of the best London houses, blows the flute, 
has an album, drives his own gig, and is considered, both on 
the road and in the metropolis, a remarkably nice, intelligent, 
thriving young man. Pogson's only fault is too great an attach- 



A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 17 

ment to the fair : — " the sex," as he sa3^s often " will be his 
ruin:" the fact is, that Pog never travels without a "Don 
Juan" under his driving-cushion, and is a pretty-looking young 
fellow enough. 

Sam Pogson had occasion to visit Paris, last October ; and 
it was in that city that his love of the sex had liked to have 
cost him dear. He worked his way down to Dover ; placing, 
right and left, at the towns on his route, rhubarb, sodas, and 
other such delectable wares as his masters dealt in (" the 
sweetest sample of castor oil, smelt like a nosega}^ — went off 
like wildfire — hogshead and a half at Rochester, eight-and 
twenty gallons at Canterbury," and so on), and crossed to 
Calais, and thence voyaged to Paris in the coupe of the Dili- 
gence. He paid for two places, too, although a single man, 
and the reason shall now be made known. 

Dining at the tahle-d'hote at " Quillacq's " — it is the best inn 
on the Continent of Europe — our little traveller had the hap- 
piness to be placed next to a lad}^, who was, he saw at a glance, 
one of the extreme pink of the nobility. A large lady, in black 
satin, with e3^es and hair as black as sloes, with gold chains, 
scent-bottles, sable tippet, worked pocket-handkerchief, and 
four twinkhng rings on each of her plump white fingers. Her 
cheeks were as pink as the finest Chinese rouge could make 
them. Pog knew the article : he travelled in it. Her lips 
were as red as the ruby lip salve : she used the ver}^ best, that 
was clear. 

She was a fine-looking woman, certainl}^ (holding down her 
ej^es, and talking perpetualty of " mes trente-deux ans") ; and 
Pogson, the wicked young dog, who professed not to care for 
young misses, saying they smelt so of bread-and-butter, de- 
clared, at once, that the lady was one of his beauties ; in fact, 
when he spoke to us about her, he said, "She's a slap-up 
thing, I tell you ; a reg'lar good one ; one of my sort ! " And 
such was Pogson's credit in all commercial rooms, that one of 
his sort was considered to surpass all other sorts. 

During dinner-time, Mr. Pogson was profoundly polite and 
attentive to the lady at his side, and kindly communicated to 
her, as is the way with the best-bred English on their first 
arrival "on the Continent," all his impressions regarding the 
sights and persons he had seen. Such remarks having been 
made during half an hour's ramble about the ramparts and 
town, and in the course of a walk down to the custom-house, 
and a confidential communication with the commissionaire^ must 
be, doubtless, very valuable to Frenchmen in their own country ; 



18 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

and the lady listened to Pogson's opinions : not only with be- 
nevolent attention, but actually, she said, with pleasure and 
delight. Mr. Pogson said that there was no such thing as 
good meat in France, and that's why they cooked their victuals 
in this queer way ; he had seen many soldiers parading about 
the place, and expressed a true Englishman's abhorrence of an 
armed force ; not that he feared such fellows as these — little 
whipper-snappers — our men would eat them . Hereupon the 
lady admitted that our Guards were angels, but that Monsieur 
must not be too hard upon the French ; ' ' her father was a 
General of the Emperor." 

Pogson felt a tremendous respect for himself at the notion 
that he was dining with a General's daughter, and instantly 
ordered a bottle of champagne to keep up his consequence. 

" Mrs. Bironn, ma'am," said he, for he had heard the waiter 
call her by some such name, " if you will accept a glass of 
champagne, ma'am, you'll do me, I'm sure, great ^onor : they 
say it's very good, and a precious sight cheaper than it is on 
our side of the way, too — not that I care for money. Mrs. 
Bironn, ma'am, 30ur health, ma'am." 

The lad}- smiled ver}^ graciousl}', and drank the wine. 

" Har 3"0U any relation, ma'am, if I may make so bold; 
bar you anyways connected with the family of our immortal 
bard?" 

" Sir, I beg 3'our pardon." 

" Don't mention it, ma'am : but Bironn and Byron are hevi- 
dentl}' the same names, only 3'ou pronounce in the French way ; 
and I thought you might be related to his lordship : his horigin, 
ma'am, was of French extraction : " and here Pogson began to 
repeat, — 

" Hare thy heyes like thy mother's, my fair child, 
Hada ! sole daughter of my 'ouse and 'art 1 " 

''Oh!" said the lad}^ laughing, "you speak of Lor 
B3Ton ? " 

" Hauthor of ' Don Juan,' ' Child 'Arold,' and ' Cain, a 
Mystery,'" said Pogson: — "I do; and hearing the waiter 
calling 3'ou Madam la Bironn, took the liberty of basking 
whether you were connected with his lordship ; that's hall : " 
and my friend here grew dreadfull3' red, and began twiddling 
his long ringlets in his fingers, and examining ver3^ eagerly the 
contents of his plate. 

"Oh, no: Madame la Baronne means Mistress Baroness; 
my husband was Baron, and I am Baroness." 



A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 19 

^' What ! *ave I the honor — I beg your pardon, ma'am — is 
your lad3'ship a Baroness, and I not know it? pray excuse me 
for calling 3'ou ma'am." 

The Baroness smiled most graciously — with such a look as 
Juno cast upon unfortunate Jupiter when she wished to gain 
her wicked ends upon him — the Baroness smiled; and, steal- 
ing her hand into a black velvet bag, drew from it an ivory 
card-case, and from the ivory card-case extracted a glazed 
card, printed in gold ; on it was engraved a coronet, and under 
the coronet the words 



BARONNE DE FLORVAL-DELVAL, 

NtE Dl MELVAIrNORm. 
Rue Taitbout. 



The grand Pitt diamond — the Queen's own star of the 
garter — a sample of otto-of-roses at a guinea a drop, would 
not be handled more curiousl}', or more respectfully, than this 
porcelain card of the Baroness. Trembling he put it into his 
little Russia-leather pocket-book : and when he ventured to look 
up, and saw the eyes of the Baroness de Florval-Delval, 'nee 
de Melval-Norval, gazing upon him with friendl}' and serene 
glances, a thrill of pride tingled through Pogson's blood : he 
felt himself to be the very happiest fellow ' ' on the Continent." 

But Pogson did not, for some time, venture to resume that 
sprightly and elegant familiarity which general!}" forms the 
great charm of his conversation : he was too much frightened 
at the presence he was in, and contented himself by graceful 
and solemn bows, deep attention, and ejaculations of " Yes, 
my lady," and " No, your ladyship," for some minutes after 
the discover}^ had been made. Pogson piqued himself on his 
breeding: "I hate the aristocracy," he said, "but that's no 
reason why I shouldn't behave like a gentleman." 

A surly, silent little gentleman, who had been the third at the 
ordinar}", and would take no part either in the conversation or 
in Pogson's champagne, now took up his hat, and, grunting, left 
the room, when the happy bagman had the delight of a tete-a-tete. 
The Baroness did not appear inclined to move : it was cold ; 
a fire was comfortable, and she had ordered none in her apart- 
ment. Might Pogson give her one more glass of champagne, 
or would her ladyship prefer " something hot." Her ladyship 



29 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

gravely said, she never took anything hot. " Some champagne, 
then ; a leetle drop ? " She would ! she would ! O gods; ! 
how Pogson's hand shook as he filled and offered her the 
glass ! 

What took place during the rest of the evening had better be 
described b}* Mr. Pogson himself, who has given us permission 
to publish his letter. 

" Quillacq's Hotel {pronounced Killtax), Calais. 

" Dear Tit, — I arrived at Cally, as they call it, this day, or, rather, 
yesterday ; for it is past midnight, as I sit thinking of a wonderful adven- 
ture that has just befallen me. A woman in course ; that's always the case 
with me, you know : but oh, Tit ! if you could but see her ! Of the first 
family in France, the Florval-Delvals, beautiful as an angel, and no more 
caring for money than I do for split peas. 

" I'll tell you how it occurred. Everybody in France, you know, dines 
at the ordinary — it's quite distangy to do so. There was only three of us 
to-day, however, — the Baroness, me, and a gent, who never spoke a word ; 
and we didn't want him to, neither : do you mark that ? 

" You know my way with the women : champagne's the thing ; make 
'era drink, make 'em talk ; — make 'em talk, make 'em do anything. So I 
orders a bottle, as if for myself ; and, ' Ma'am,' says I, * will you take a 
glass of Sham — just one 1 ' Take it she did — for you know it's quite 
distangy here : everybody dines at the table de hote, and everybody accepts 
everybody's wine. Bob Irons, who travels in linen on our circuit, told me 
that he had made some slap-up acquaintances among the genteelest people 
at Paris, nothing but by offering them Sham. 

"Well, my Baroness takes one glass, two glasses, three glasses — the 
old fellow goes — we have a deal of chat (she took me for a military man, 
she said : is it not singular that so many people should 1 ), and by ten o'clock 
we had grown so intimate, that I had from her her whole history, knew 
where she came from, and where she was going. Leave me alone with 
'em : I can find out any woman's history in half an hour. 

" And where do you think she is going 1 to Paris to be sure : she has 
her seat in what they call the coopy (though you're not near so cooped in 
it as in our coaches. I've been to the office and seen one of 'era). She has 
her place in the coopy, and the coopy holds three ; so what does Sara Pogson 
do ? — he goes and takes the other two. Ain't I up to a thing or two 1 Oh, 
no, not the least ; but I shall have her to myself the whole of the way. 

" We shall be in the French metropolis the day after this reaches you : 
please look out for a handsome lodging for me, and never mind the expense. 
And I say, if you could, in her hearing, when you came down to the coach, 
call me Captain Pogson, I wish you would — it sounds well travelling, you 
know ; and when she asked me if I was not an officer, I couldn't say no. 
Adieu, then, my dear fellow, till Monday, and vive le joy, as they say. 
The Baroness says I speak French charmingly, she talks EngUsh as well 
as you or L 

" Your affectionate friend, 

"S. Pogson." 

This letter reached us duly, in our garrets, and we engaged 
Biich an apartment for Mr. Pogson, as beseemed a gentleman of 



A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 21 

his rank in the world and the army. At the appointed hour, 
too, we repaired to the Dihgence office, and there beheld the 
arrival of the machine which contained him and his lovely 
Baroness. 

Those who have much frequented the society of gentlemen 
of his profession (and what more delightful?) must be aware, 
that, when all the rest of mankind look hideous, dirty, peevish, 
wretched, after a forty hours' coach-journey, a bagman appears 
as gay and spruce as when he started ; having within himself 
a thousand little conveniences for the vo^^age, which common 
travellers neglect. Pogson had a little portable toilet, of which 
he had not failed to take advantage, and with his long, curling, 
flaxen hair, flowing under a seal-skin cap, with a gold tassel, 
with a blue and gold satin handkerchief, a crimson velvet waist- 
coat, a light green cut-away coat, a pair of barred brickdust-col- 
ored pantaloons, and a neat mackintosh, presented, altogether, 
as elegant and distingue an appearance as any one could desire. 
He had put on a clean collar at breakfast, and a pair of white 
kids as he entered the barrier, and looked, as he rushed into 
m}^ arms, more like a man stepping out of a band-box, than one 
descending from a vehicle that has just performed one of the 
laziest, dullest, flattest, stalest, dirtiest journeys in Europe. 

To my surprise, there were two ladies in the coach with my 
friend, and not one, as I had expected. One of these, a stout 
female, carrying sundry baskets, bags, umbrellas, and woman's 
wraps, was evidently a maid-servant : the other, in black, was 
Pogson's fair one, evidently. I could see a gleam of curl-papers 
over a sallow face, — of a dusk}^ nightcap flapping over the 
curl-papers, — but these were hidden by a lace veil and a huge 
velvet bonnet, of which the crowning birds-of-paradise were 
evidently in a moulting state. She was encased in many shawls 
and wrappers ; she put, hesitatingly, a pretty little foot out of 
the carriage — Pogson was by her side in an instant, and, gal- 
lantly putting one of his white kids round her waist, aided this 
interesting creature to descend. I saw, by her walk, that she 
was five-and-forty, and that my little Pogson was a lost man. 

After some brief parley between them — in which it was 
charming to hear how m}^ friend Samuel would speak, what he 
called French, to a lady who could not understand one syllable 
of his jargon — the mutual hackney-coaches drew up ; Madame 
la Baronne waved to the Captain a graceful French curtsy. 
*' Adyoxx ! " said Samuel, and waved his lily hand. " Adyou- 
addimang." 

A brisk little gentleman, who had made the journey in the 



22 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

same coach with Pogson, but had more modestl}^ taken a seat 
in the Imperial, here passed us, and greeted me with a " How 
d'ye do?" He had shouldered his own httle valise, and was 
trudging off, scattering a cloud of commissionaires^ who would 
fain have spared him the trouble. 

"Do 3^ou know that chap?" saj^s Pogson; "surly fellow, 
ain't he ? " 

"The kindest man in existence," answered I; "all the 
world knows little Major British." 

"He's a Major, is he? — why, that's the fellow that dined 
with us at Killyax's ; it's luck}^ I did not call myself Captain 
before him, he mightn't have liked it, you know : " and then 
Sam fell into a reverie ; — what was the subject of his thoughts 
soon appeared. 

" Did 3^ou ever see such a foot and ankle?" said Sam, after 
sitting for some time, regardless of the novelty of the scene, 
his hands in his pockets, plunged in the deepest thought. 

''^ Isn't she a slap-up woman, eh, now?" pursued he; and 
began enumerating her attractions, as a horse-jockey would the 
points of a favorite animal. 

"You seem to have gone a prett}^ length alread}^," said I, 
" b}^ promising to visit her to-morrow." 

"A good length? — I believe you. Leave me alone for 
that." 

' ' But I thought you were only to be two in the coupe ^ yo\x 
wicked rogue." 

" Two in the coopy'? Oh ! ah ! yes, you know — whj'^, that 
is, I didn't know she had her maid with her (what an ass I was 
to think of a noblewoman travelling without one !) and couldn't, 
in course, refuse, when she asked me to let the maid in." 

" Of course not." 

" Couldn't, you know, as a man of Aonor ; but I made up 
for all that," said Pogson, winking slj^l}^, and putting his hand 
to his little bunch of a nose, in a very knowing way. 

"You did, and how?" 

"Why, 3'ou dog, I sat next to her; sat in the middle the 
whole wa}^ and my back's half broke, I can tell 3^ou : " and 
thus, having depicted his happiness, we soon reached the inn 
where this back-broken young man was to lodge during his stay 
in Paris. 

The next da3' at five we met ; Mr. Pogson had seen his 
Baroness, and described her lodgings, in his own expressive 
wa3^ as "slap-up." She had received him quite like an old 
friend; treated him to eau sucree, of which beverage he ex- 



i A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 23 

pressed himself a great admirer ; and actuall}^ asked him to 
dine the next da3^ But there was a cloud over the ingenuous 
3^outh's brow, and I inquired still farther. 

" Why," said he, with a sigh, " I thought she was a widow ; 
and, hang it ! who should come in but her husband the Baron : 
a big fellow, sir, with a blue coat, a red ribbing, and such a 
pair of mustachios ! " 

" Well," said I, "he didn't turn you out, I suppose? " 

" Oh, no ! on the contrar}-, as kind as possible ; his lordship 
said that he respected the English army ; asked me what corps 
I was in, — said he had fought in Spain against us, — and made 
me welcome." 

" What could you want more? " 

Mr. Pogson at this only whistled ; and if some very profound 
observer of human nature had been there to read into this little 
bagman's heart, it would, perhaps, have been manifest, that the 
appearance of a whiskered soldier of a husband had counter- 
acted some plans that the young scoundrel was concocting. 

I live up a hundred and thirt3'-seven steps in the rem(5te 
quarter of the Luxembourg, and it is not to be expected that 
such a fashionable fellow as Sam Pogson, with his pockets full 
of money, and a new Qitj to see, should be alwaj^s wandering 
to my dull quarters ; so that, although he did not make his 
appearance for some time, he must not be accused of any luke- 
warmness of friendship on that score. 

He was out, too, when I called at his hotel ; but once, I had 
the good fortune to see him, with his hat curiously on one side, 
looking as pleased as Punch, and being driven, in an open cab, 
in the Champs Elysees. " That's another tip-top chap," said 
he, when we met, at length. " What do you think of an Earl's 
son, my boy? Honorable Tom Ringwood, son of the Earl of 
Cinqbars : what do you think of that, eh?" 

I thought he was getting into very good society. Sam was 
a dashing fellow, and was always above his own line of life ; he 
had met Mr. Ringwood at the Baron's, and they'd been to the 
play together ; and the honorable gent, as Sam called him, had 
joked with Inm about being well to do in a certain quarter; and 
he had had a game of bilhards with the Baron, at the Estaminy, 
' f ^^^J distangy place, where you smolce," said Sam ; " quite 
select, and frequented by the tip-top nobihty ; " and they were 
as thick as peas in a shell ; and they were to dine that day at 
Kingwood's, and sup, the next night, with the Baroness. 

"I think the chaps down the road will stare," said Sam, 
'*when they hear how I've been coming it." And stare, no 



24 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. I 

doubt, they would ; for it is certain that very few commercial 
gentlemen have had Mr. Pogson's advantages. 

The next morning we had made an arrangement to go out 
shopping together, and to purchase some articles of female 
gear, that Sam intended to bestow on his relations when he 
returned. Seven needle-books, for his sisters ; a gilt buckle, 
for his mamma ; a handsome French cashmere shawl and 
bonnet, for liis aunt (the old lady keeps an inn in the Borough, 
and has plenty of mone^^, and no heirs) ; and a toothpick case, 
for his father. Sam is a good fellow to all his relations, and as 
for his aunt, he adores her. Well, we were to go and make 
these purchases, and I arrived punctually at my time ; but Sam 
was stretched on a sofa, ver}' pale and dismal. 

I saw how it had been. — ''A little too much of Mr. Ring- 
wood's claret, I suppose ? " 

He only gave a sickly stare. 

" Where does the Honorable Tom live? " says I. 

'''• Honorable r' sa3^s Sam, with a hollow, horrid laugh; "I 
tell 3^ou, Tit, he's no more Honorable than you are." 

" What, an impostor? " 

" No, no ; not that. He is a real Honorable, onl}^ — " 

" Oh, ho ! I smell a rat — a little jealous, eh? " 

"Jealousy be hanged! I tell you he's a thief; and the 
Baron's a thief; and, hang me, if I think his wife is any better. 
Eight-and-thirt}^ pounds he won of me before supper ; and made 
me drunk, and sent me home: — is that honorable? How can 
I afford to lose forty pounds ? It's took me two years to save 
it up : — if my old aunt gets wind of it, she'll cut me off with a 
shilling : hang me ! " — and here Sam, in an agony, tore his 
fair hair. 

While l3ewailing his lot in this lamentable strain, his bell was 
rung, which signal being answered b}^ a surlj?" "Come in," a 
tall, very fashionable gentleman, with a fur coat, und a fierce 
tuft to ills chin, entered the room. "PogRoti my buck, ho\^ 
goes it?" said he, familiarly, and gave a stare nt me: 1 was 
making for my hat. 

"Don't go," said Sam, rather eagerly; and I sat down 
again. 

The Honorable Mr. Ringwood hummed and ha'd : and, at 
last, said he wished to speak to Mr. Pogson on business, in 
private, if possible. 

" There's no secrets betwixt me and my friend," cried Sam. 

Mr. Ringwood paused a little: — "An awkward business 
that of last night," at length exclaimed he. 



A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 25 

*' I believe it was an awkward business," said Sam, dryly. 

" I really am very sorry for your losses." 

" Thank you : and so am I, /can tell 3'ou," said Sam. 

" You must mind, my good fellow, and not drink ; for, when 
you drink, you will play high : by Gad, you led us in, and not 
we 3^ou." 

" I dare say," answered Sam, with something of peevishness ; 
' ' losses is losses : there's no use talking about 'em when they're 
over and paid." 

"And paid ? " here wonderingly spoke Mr. Ringwood ; "why, 
my dear fel — what the deuce — has Florval been with j^ou?"" 

" D — Florval ! " growled Sam, " I've never set eyes on his 
face since last night ; and never wish to see him again." 

"Come, come, enough of this talk; how do you intend to 
settle the bills which you gave him last night ? " 

" Bills ! what do 3'ou mean? " 

" I mean, sir, these bills," said the Honorable Tom, produ- 
cing two out of his pocket-book, and looking as stern as a lion. 
" ' I promise to pay, on demand, to the Baron de Florval, the 
sum of four hundred pounds. October 20, 1838.' ' Ten days 
after date I promise to pay the Baron de et csetera et caetera, 
one hundred and ninety-eight pounds. Samuel Pogson.' You 
didn't say what regiment you were in." 

" What ! " shouted poor Sam, as from a dream, starting up 
and looking preternaturally pale and hideous. 

"D — it, sir, 3'ou don't affect ignorance : 3'ou don't pretend 
not to remember that 3'Ou signed these bills, for money lost in 
my rooms : money lent to 3^ou, b3' Madame de Florval, at 3^our 
own request, and lost to her husband? You don't suppose, sir, 
that I shall be such an infernal idiot as to believe 3'ou, or such 
a coward as to put up with a mean subterfuge of this sort. 
Will 3^ou, or will 3'ou not, pay the mone3', sir?" 

" I will not," said Sam, stoutl3' ; " it's a d — d swin — " 

Here Mr. Ringwood sprung up, clenching his riding- whip, 
and looking so fierce that Sam and 1 bounded back to the other 
end of the room. "Utter that word again, and, b3^ heaven, I'll 
murder you ! " shouted Mr. Ringwood, and looked as if he 
would, too: " once more, will 3^ou, or will 3'ou not, pa3^ this 
money ? " 

"I can't," said Sam faintl3'. 

" I'll call again. Captain Pogson," said Mr. Ringwood, " I'll 
call again in one hour ; and, unless you come to some arrange- 
ment, 3^ou must meet m3' friend, the Baron de Florval, or I'll post 
you for a swindler and a coward." With this he went out ; the 



26 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

door thundered to after him, and when the clink of his steps 
departing had subsided, I was enabled to look round at Pog. 
tf.The poor little man had his -elbows on the marble table, his 
head between his hands, and looked, as one has seen gentlemen 
look over a steam- vessel off Ramsgate, the wind blowing re- 
markably fresh : at last he fairly burst out cr3dng. 

" If Mrs. Pogson heard of this," said I, " what would be- 
come of the 'Three Tuns?'" (for I wished to give him a les- 
son). " If 3'our Ma, who took 3^ou every Sunda}^ to meeting, 
should know that her boy was paying attention to married 
women; — if Drench, Glauber and Co., your emplo^-ers, were 
to know that their confidential agent was a gambler, and unfit 
to be trusted with their mone}^ how long do j^ou think 3^our 
connection would last with them, and who would afterwards 
employ you ? " 

To this poor Pog had not a word of answer ; but sat on his 
sofa whimpering so bitterl}^, that the sternest of moralists 
would have relented towards him, and would have been touched 
by the little wretch's tears. Everything, too, must be pleaded 
in excuse for this unfortunate bagman : who, if he wished to 
pass for a captain, had only done so because he had an intense 
respect and longing for rank : if he had made love to the Bar- 
oness, had only done so because he was given to understand 
by Lord Byron's "Don Juan" that making love was a very 
correct, natty thing : and if he had gambled, had only been 
induced to do so by the bright ej^es and example of the Baron 
and the Baroness. O ye Barons and Baronesses of England ! 
if ye knew what a number of small commoners are dail}^ occu- 
pied in studying j^our lives, and imitating your aristocratic 
ways, how careful would ye be of your morals, manners, and 
conversation ! 

My soul was filled, then, with a gentle yearning pity for 
Pogson, and revolved man}- plans for his rescue : none of these 
seeming to be practicable, at last we hit on the very wisest of 
all, and determined to apj^h" for counsel to no less a person 
than Major British. 

A blessing it is to be acquainted with m}^ worthy friend, 
little Major British ; and heaven, sure, it was that put the 
Major into my head, when I heard of this awkward scrape of 
poor Pog's. The Major is on half-pa}^, and occupies a modest 
apartment au quatrieme, in the very hotel which Pogson had 
patronized at my suggestion ; indeed, I had chosen it from 
Major British's own peculiar recommendation. 

There is no better guide to follow than such a character as 



A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 27 

the honest Major, of whom there are many likenesses now 
scattered over the Continent of Europe : men who love to live 
well, and are forced to live cheapl}^, and who find the English 
abroad a thousand times easier, merrier, and more hospitable 
than the same persons at home. I, for mj^ part, never landed 
on Calais pier without feeling that a load of sorrows was left 
on the other side of the water ; and have alwa3s fancied that 
black care stepped on board the steamer, along with the cus- 
tom-house officers at Gravesend, and accompanied one to yon- 
der black louring towers of London — so busy, so dismal, and 
so vast. 

British would have cut any foreigner's throat who ventured 
to sa}^ so much, but entertained, no doubt-, private sentiments 
of this nature ; for he passed eight months of the year, reg- 
ularly, abroad, with headquarters at Paris (the garrets before 
alluded to) , and onl}' went to England for the month's shooting, 
on the grounds of his old colonel, now an old lord, of whose 
acquaintance the Major was passably inclined to boast. 

He loved and respected, like a good staunch Tory as he is, 
every one of the English nobilit}^ ; gave himself certain little 
airs of a man of fashion, that were by no means disagreeable ; 
and was, indeed, kindly regarded b}^ such English aristocracy 
as he met, in his little annual tours among the German courts, 
in Italy or in Paris, where he never missed an ambassador's 
night : he retailed to us, who didn't go, but were delighted to 
know all that had taken place, accurate accounts of the dishes, 
the dresses, and the scandal which had there fallen under his 
observation. 

He is, moreover, one of the most useful persons in society 
that can possibly be ; for besides being incorrigibly duelsome 
on his own account, he is, for others, the most acute and 
peaceable counsellor in the world, and has carried more friends 
through scrapes and prevented more deaths than any member 
of the Humane Societ3^ British never bought a single step 
in the arm}^, as is well known. In '14 he killed a celebrated 
French fire-eater, who had slain a j'oung friend of his, and 
living, as he does, a great deal with young men of pleasure, 
and good old sober familj- people, he is loved by them both, 
and has as welcome a place made for him at a roaring bach- 
elor's supper at the " Cafe Anglais," as at a staid dowager's 
dinner- table in the Faubourg St. Honore. Such pleasant old 
boys are very profitable acquaintances, let me tell 3^ou ; and 
lucky is the young man who has one or two such friends in his 
list. 



28 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Hurr^'ing on Pogson in his dress, I conducted him, panting, 
up to the Major's quatrieme, where we were cheerfulty bidden 
to come in. The httle gentleman was in his travelhng jacket, 
and occupied in painting, elegantly, one of those natty pairs of 
boots in which he daily promenaded the Boulevards. A couple 
of pairs of tough buff gloves had been undergoing some pipe- 
claying operation under his hands ; no man stepped out so 
spick and span, with a hat so nicely brushed, with a stiff cravat 
tied so neatly under a fat little red face, with a blue frock-coat 
so scrupulously fitted to a punchy little person, as Major British, 
about whom we have written these two pages. He stared 
rather hardlj' at my companion, but gave me a kind shake of 
the hand, and we proceeded at once to business. "Major 
British," said I, "we want your advice in regard to an un- 
pleasant affair which has just occurred to my friend Pogson." 

" Pogson, take a chair." 

" You must know, sir, that Mr. Pogson, coming from Calais 
the other day, encountered, in the diligence, a very handsome 
woman." 

British winked at Pogson, who, wretched as he was, could 
not help feeUng pleased. 

" Mr. Pogson was not more pleased with this lovel}^ creature 
than was she with him ; for, it appears, she gave him her card, 
invited him to her house, where he has been constantly, and 
has been received with much kindness." 

" I see," says British. 

' ' Her husband the Baron " 

"AW it's coming," said the Major, with a grin: "her 
husband is jealous, I suppose, and there is a talk of the Bois 
de Boulogne : my dear sir, you can't refuse — can't lefuse." 

" It's not that," said Pogson, waggmghis head passionately. 

" Her husband the Baron seemed quite as much taken with 
Poo"son as his lady was, and has introduced him to some very 
distingue friends of his own set. Last night one of the Baron's 
friends gave a party in honor of my friend Pogson, who lost 
forty-eight pounds at cards before he was made drunk, and 
heaven knows how much after." 

"Not a shilling, by sacred heaven! — not a shilling!" 
yelled out Pogson. " After the supper I 'ad such an 'eadach', 
I couldn't do anything but fall asleep on the sofa." 

"You 'ad such an 'eadach', sir," says British, sternly, who 
piques himself on his grammar and pronunciation, and scorns 
a cockney. 

" Such a A-eadache, sir," replied Pogson, with much meekness. 



A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 29 

"The unfortunate man is brought home at two o'clock, as 
tipsy as possible, dragged up stairs, senseless, to bed, and, on 
waking, receives a visit from his entertainer of the night before 
• — a lord's son. Major, a tip- top fellow, — who brings a couple 
of bills that m}^ friend Pogson is said to have signed." 

" Well, my dear fellow, the thing's quite simple, — he must 
pay them." 

" I can't pay them." 

" He can't pay them," said we both in a breath : " Pogson 
is a commercial traveller, with thirty shillings a week, and how 
the deuce is he to pay five hundred pounds ? " 

" A bagman, sir ! and what right has a bagman to gamble? 
Gentlemen gamble, sir; tradesmen, sir, have no business with 
the amusements of the gentry. What business had you with 
barons and lords' sons, sir? — serve you right, sir." 

"Sir," says Pogson, with some dignity, "merit, and not 
birth, is the criterion of a man : I despise an hereditary aris- 
tocracy, and admire only Nature's gentlemen. For my part, I 
think that a British merch — " 

"Hold your tongue, sir," bounced out the Major, "and 
don't lecture me ; don't come to me, sir, with your slang about 
Nature's gentlemen — Nature's tomfools, sir ! Did Nature open 
a cash account for you at a banker's, sir? Did Nature give 
you an education, sir? What do you mean by competing with 
people to whom Nature has given all these things? Stick to 
3^our bags, Mr. Pogson, and your bagmen, and leave barons 
and their like to their own ways." 

"Yes, but. Major," here cried that faithful friend, who 
has always stood b}^ Pogson ; ' ' they won't leave him alone." 

" The honorable gent says I must fight if I don't pay," whim- 
pered Sam. 

" What ! fight you ? Do you mean that the honorable gent, 
as you call him, will go out with a bagman? " 

" He doesn't know I'm a — I'm a commercial man," blush- 
ingly said Sam : " he fancies I'm a militar}^ gent." 

The Major's gravity was quite upset at this absurd notion ; 
and he laughed outrageously. "Why, the fact is, sir," said 
I, "that my friend Pogson, knowing the value of the title of 
Captain, and being complimented hy the Baroness on his war- 
like appearance, said, boldl}', he was in the army. He only 
assumed the rank in order to dazzle her weak imagination, 
never fancying that there was a husband, and a circle of friends, 
with whom he was afterwards to make an acquaintance ; and 
then, you know, it was too late to withdraw." 



30 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

" A pretty pickle you have put yourself in, Mr. Pogson, by 
making love to other men's wives, and calling yourself names," 
said the Major, who was restored to good humor. " And pra}^ 
who is the honorable gent?" 

" The Earl of Cinqbars' son," says Pogson, "the Honor- 
able Tom Ringwood." 

' ' I thought it was some such character ; and the Baron is 
the Baron de Florval-Delval ? " 

" The very same." 

"And his wife a black-haired woman, with a prett}^ foot 
and ankle ; calls herself Athenais ; and is always talking about 
her trente-deux ans? Why, sir, that woman was an actress on 
the Boulevard, when we were here in '15. She's no more his wife 
than I am. Delval's name is Chicot. The woman- is always 
travelling between London and Paris ; I saw she was hooking 
you at Calais ; she has hooked ten men, in the course of the 
last two 3^ears, in this very way. She lent you mone}^ didn't 
she? " " Yes." " And she leans on your shoulder, and whis- 
pers, * Play half for me,' and somebody wins it, and the poor 
thing is as sorry as you are, and her husband storms and rages, 
and insists on double stakes ; and she leans over your shoulder 
again, and tells every card in 3-our hand to your adversary, and 
that's the way it's done, Mr. Pogson." 

" I've been 'ac?, I see I 'ave," said Pogson, very humbly. 

" Well, sir," said the Major, " in consideration, not of j^ou, 
sir — for, give me leave to tell 3'ou, Mr. Pogson, that you are 
a pitiful little scoundrel — in consideration for m}^ Lord Cinq- 
bars, sir, with whom, I am proud to sa}^ I am intimate," (the 
Major dearly loved a lord, and was, by his own showing, ac- 
quainted with half the peerage,) " I will aid you in this affair. 
Your cursed vanit}^, sir, and want of principle, has set you, in 
the first place, intriguing with other men's wives ; and if you 
had been shot for your pains, a bullet would have only served 
you right, sir. You must go about as an impostor, sir, in 
society ; and you paj^ richly for j-our swindling, sir, by being 
swindled yourself: but, as I think your punishment has been 
alread}^ pretty severe, I shall do mj^ best, out of regard for mj 
friend, Lord Cinqbars, to prevent the matter going any farther ; 
and I recommend you to leave Paris without dela}^ Now let 
me wish 3'ou a good morning." — Wherewith British made a 
majestic bow, and began giving the last touch to his varnished 
boots. 

We departed : poor Sam perfect^ silent and chapfallen ; 
and I meditating on the wisdom of the half-pay philosopher, 



A CAUTION TO TRAVELLERS. 31 

and wondering what means he would employ to rescue Pogson 
from his fate. 

What these means were I know not ; but Mr. Ringwood did 
not make his appearance at six ; and, at eight, a letter arrived 
for " Mr. Pogson, commercial traveller," &c. &c. It was blank 
inside, but contained his two bills. Mr. Ringwood left town, 
almost immediately^ for Vienna ; nor did the Major explain 
the circumstances which caused his departure ; but he muttered 
something about " knew some of his old tricks," " threatened 
police, and made him disgorge directly." 

Mr. Ringwood is, as yet, young at his trade ; and I have 
often thought it was very green of him to give up the bills 
to the Major, who, certainly, would never have pressed the 
matter before the police, out of respect for his friend, Lord 
Cinqbars. 



THE FETES OF JULY. 

IN A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE ''BUNGAY BEACON.' 



Paris, July 30th, 1839. 

We have arrived here just in time for the fetes of July. — 
You have read, no doubt, of that glorious revolution which 
took place here nine years ago, and which is now com- 
memorated annually, in a pretty facetious manner, by gun- 
firing, student-processions, pole-climbing-for-silver-spoows, gold- 
watches and legs-of- mutton, monarchical orations, and what not, 
and sanctioned, moreover, by Chamber-of-Deputies, with a grant 
of a couple of hundred thousand francs to defray the expenses 
of all the crackers, gun-firings, and legs-of-mutton aforesaid. 
There is a new fountain in the Place Louis Quinze, otherwise 
called the Place Louis Seize, or else the Place de la Revolution, 
or else the Place de la Concorde (who can say why?) — which, 
I am told, is to run bad wine during certain hours to-morrow, 
and there would have been a review of the National Guards 
and the Line — only, since the Fieschi business, reviews are 
no joke, and so this latter part of the festivity has been dis- 
continued. 

Do you not laugh, O Pharos of Bungay, at the continuance of 
a humbug such as this ? — at the humbugging anniversary of a 
humbug? The King of the Barricades is, next to the Emperoi 
Nicholas, the most absolute Sovereign in Europe ; jq\> there is 
not in the whole of this fair kingdom of France a single man 
who cares sixpence about him, or his dynastj^ : except, majiiap, 
a few hangers-on at the Chateau, who eat his dinners, and put 
their hands in his purse. The feeling of loyalty is as dead as old 
Charles the Tenth ; the Chambers have been laughed at, the 
country has been laughed at, all the successive ministries have 
been laughed at (and you know who is the wag that has amused 




iiliiilifflli 



THE FETES OF JULY. 33 

himself with them all) ; and, behold, here come three days.at the 
end of July, and cannons think it necessary to fire ofi", squibs and 
crackers to blaze and fizz, fountains to run wine ,^ kings to make 
speeches, and subjects to crawl up greas}^ mats-de-cocagne in 
token of gratitude and rejouissance puhlique 1 — My dear sir, in 
their aptitude to swallow, to utter, to enact humbugs, these 
French people, from Majesty downwards, beat all the other 
nations of this earth. In looking at these men, their manners, 
dresses, opinions, politics, actions, history, it is impossible to 
preserve a grave countenance ; instead of having Carlyle to write 
a History of the F'^rench Revolution, I often think it should be 
handed over to Dickens or Theodore Hook : and oh ! where is 
the Rabelais to be the faithful historian of the last phase of the 
Revolution — the last glorious nine years of which we are now 
commemorating the last glorious three days ? 

I had made a vow not to say a syllable on the subject, 
although I have seen, with my neighbors, all the gingerbread 
stalls down the Champs Elysees, and some of the " catafalques " 
erected to the memory of the heroes of July, where the students 
and others, not connected personally with the victims, and not 
having in the least profited by their deaths, come and weep ; 
but the grief shown on the first day is quite as absurd and 
fictitious as the joy exhibited on the last. The subject is one 
which admits of much wholesome reflection and food for mirth ; 
and, besides, is so richty treated by the French themselves, 
that it would be a sin and a shame to pass it over. Allow me 
to have the honor of translating, for your edification, an account 
of the first day's proceedings — it is mighty amusing, to my 
thinking. 

"CELEBRATION OF THE DAYS OF JULY. 

" To-daj^ (Saturday), funeral ceremonies, in honor of the 
victims of July, were held in the various edifices consecrated 
to public worship. 

" These edifices, with the exception of some churches 
(especially that of the Pe tits-Peres) , were uniformly hung with 
black on the outside ; the hangings bore onl}' this inscription : 
27, 28, 29 July, 1830 — surrounded by a wreath of oak- 
leaves. 

" In the interior of the Catholic churches, it had only been 
thought proper to dress little catafalques^ as for burials of the 
third and fourth class. Very few clergy attended ; but a con- 
siderable number of the National Guard. 

' ' The S}' nagogue of the Israelites was entirely hung with 



34 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

black ; and a great concourse of people attended. The service 
was performed with the greatest pomp. 

"In the Protestant temples there was likewise a very fuli 
attendance : apologetical discourses on the Revolution of July 
were pronounced by the pastors. 

" The absence of M. de Quelen (Archbishop of Paris), and 
of many members of the superior clergy, was remarked at Notre 
Dame. 

" The civil authorities attended service in their several 
districts. 

" The poles, ornamented with tri-colored flags, which for- 
merly were placed on Notre Dame, were, it was remarked, 
suppressed. The flags on the Pont Neuf were, during the 
ceremony, onh^ half-mast high, and covered with crape." 

Et csetera, et csetera, et csetera. 

" The tombs of the Louvre were covered with black hang- 
ings, and adorned with tri-colored flags. In front and in the 
middle was erected an expiatory monument of a p3'ramidical 
shape, and surmounted by a funeral vase. 

" These tombs were guarded hy the Municipal Guard, the 
Troops of the Line, the Sergens de Ville (town patrol)^ 
AND A Brigade of Agents of Police in plain clothes, 
under the orders of peace-officer Vassal. 

"Between eleven and twelve o'clock, some 3'oung men, to 
the number of 400 or 500, assembled on the Place de la Bourse, 
one of them bearing a tri-colored banner with an inscription, 
' To THE Manes of July : ' ranging themselves in order, the}' 
marched five abreast to the Marche des Innocens. On their 
arrival, the Municipal Guards of the Halle aux Draps, where 
the post had been doubled, issued out without arms, and the 
town-sergeants placed themselves before the market to prevent 
the entry of the procession. The young men passed in perfect 
order, and without saying a word — only lifting their hats as 
they defiled before the tombs. When they arrived at the 
Louvre they found the gates shut, and the garden evacuated. 
The troops were under arms, and formed in battalion. 

"After the passage of the procession, the Garden was 
again open to the public." 

And the evening and the morning were the first day. 

There's nothing serious in mortality : is there, from the 
beginning of this account to the end thereof, aught but sheer, 
open, monstrous, undisguised humbug? I said, before, that 
you should have a history of these people b}" Dickens or Theo- 
dore Hook, but there is little need of professed wags ; — do not 



THE FETES OF JULY. 35 

the men write their own tale with an admirable Sancho-Hke 
gravit}^ and naivete, which one could not desire improved? 
How good is that touch of si}' indignation about the little cata- 
falques 1 how rich the contrast presented by the econom}^ of the 
Catholics to the splendid disregard of expense exhibited by the 
devout Jews ! and how touching the " apologetical discourses on 
the Revolution," delivered by the Protestant pastors ! Fancy 
the profound affliction of the Gardes Municipaux, the Sergens 
de Ville, the police agents in plain clothes, and the troops with 
fixed bayonets, sobbing round the " expiatory monuments of a 
pyramidical shape, surmounted by funeral vases," and com- 
pelled, by sad dut}', to fire into the public who might wish to 
indulge in the same woe ! O " manes of July ! " (the phrase is 
pretty and grammatical) why did 5"ou with sharp bullets break 
those Louvre windows? Why did you ba3'onet red-coated 
Swiss behind that fair white fagade, and, braving cannon, 
musket, sabre, perspective guillotine, burst 3'Onder bronze gates, 
rush through that peaceful picture-galler}-, and hurl royalty, 
loyalty, and a thousand 3^ears of Kings, head-over-heels out of 
3^onder Tuileries' windows ? 

It is, you will allow, a little difficult to say: — there is, 
however, one benefit that the countr3^ has gained (as for libert}' 
of press, or person, diminished taxation, a juster representa- 
tion, who ever thinks of them?) — one benefit they have gained, 
or nearl3' — aholition de la peine-de-mort pour delit politique : no 
more wicked guillotining for revolutions. A Frenchman must 
have his revolution — it is his nature to knock down omnibuses 
in the street, and across them to fire at troops of the line — it 
is a sin to balk it. Did not the King send off Revolutionary 
Prince Napoleon in a coach-and-four ? Did not the jur3^, before 
the face of God and Justice, proclaim Revolutionar3'' Colonel 
yaudre3^ not guilt3^? — One ma}^ hope, soon, that if a man 
shows decent courage and energy in half a dozen emeutes, he 
will get promotion and a premium. 

I do not (although, perhaps, partial to the subject,) want 
to talk more nonsense than the occasion warrants, and will 
pray 3'Ou to cast 3^our 63^68 over the following anecdote, that is 
now going the round of the papers, and respects the commu- 
tation of the punishment of that wretched, fool-hard3" Barbes, 
who, on his trial, seemed to invite the penalt3' which has just 
been remitted to him. You recollect the braggart's speech : 
" When the Indian falls into the power of the enemy, he knows 
the fate that awaits him, and submits his head to the knife : — 
/ am the Indian ! " 



36 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

c^WeW — " 

" M. Hugo was at the Opera on the night the sentence of 
the Court of Peers, condemning Barbes to death, was pub- 
lished. The great poet composed the following verses : — 

* Par votre ange envolee, ainsi qu'une colorabe, 
Par le royal enfant, doux et frele roseau, 
Grace encore une fois ! Grace au nom de la tombe ! 
Grace an nom du berceau ! ' * 

" M. Victor Hugo wrote the hues out instantly on a sheet 
of paper, which he folded, and simply despatched them to the 
King of the French by the penny-post. 

" That truly is a noble voice, which can at all hours thus 
speak to the throne. Poetry, in old days, was called the lan- 
guage of the Gods — it is better named now — it is the lan- 
guage of the Kings. 

" But the clemenc}^ of the King had anticipated the letter of 
the Poet. His Majesty had signed the commutation of Barbes, 
while the poet was still writing. 

' ' Louis Philippe replied to the author of ' 'Ruy Bias ' most 
graciously, that he had already subscribed to a wish so noble, 
and that the verses had only confirmed his previous disposition 
to merc}^" 

Now in countries where fools most abound, did one ever 
read of more monstrous, palpable folly? In an}^ country, save 
this, would a poet who chose to write four crack-brained verses, 
comparing an angel to a dove, and a little boy to a reed, and 
calling upon the chief magistrate, in the name of the angel, 
or dove (the Princess Marj^), in her tomb, and the little infant 
in his cradle, to spare a criminal, have received a "gracious 
answer" to his nonsense? Would he have ever despatched 
the nonsense ? and would any journalist have been silly enough 
to talk of " the noble voice that could thus speak to the throne," 
and the noble throne that could return such a noble answer 
to the noble voice ? You get notliing done here gravel}^ and 
decently. Tawdry stage tricks are played, and braggadocio 
claptraps uttered, on every occasion, however sacred or solemn : 
in the face of death, as b}^ Barbes with his hideous Indian 
metaphor ; in the teeth of reason, as bj- M. Victor Hugo with 

* Translated for the benefit of country gentlemen : — 
"By your angel flown away just like a dove, 
By the royal infant, that frail and tender reed, 
Pardon yet once more ! Pardon in the name of the tomb 1 
Pardon in the name of the cradle ! " 



THE FETES OF JULY. 37 

his twopenny-post poetry ; and of justice, as by the King's ab- 
surd reply to this absurd demand ! Suppose the Count of Paris 
to be twenty times a reed, and the Princess Mary a host of 
angels, is that any reason why the law should not have its 
course? Justice is the God of our lower world, our great 
omnipresent guardian : as such it moves, or should move on 
majestic, awful, irresistible, having no passions — like a God: 
but, in the very midst of the path across which it is to pass, lo ! 
M. Victor Hugo trips forward, smirking, and says, O divine 
Justice ! I will trouble you to listen to the following trifling 
effusion of mine : — 

Par voire ange envol€e, ainsi qu'une," ^c. 

Awful Justice stops, and, bowing gravely, listens toM. Hugo's 
verses, and, with true French politeness, sa3^s, "Moncher Mon- 
sieur, these verses are charming, 7^avissajis, delicieux^ and, com- 
ing from such a celebrite litteraire as yourself, shall meet with 
every possible attention — in fact, had I required anything 
to confirm m}^ own previous opinions, this charming poem 
would have done so. Bon jour, mon cher Monsieur Hugo, 
au revoir ! " — and they part : — Justice taking off his hat and 
bowing, and the author of " Ruy Bias" quite convinced that 
he has been treating with him d'egal en egal. I can hardly 
bring my mind to fancy that anj^thing is serious in France — 
it seems to be all rant, tinsel, and stage-play. Sham liberty, 
sham monarchy, sham glorj^, sham justice, — ou diahle done la 
verite va-t-elle se nicher ? 

The last rocket of the fete of July has just mounted, ex- 
ploded, made a portentous bang, and emitted a gorgeous show 
of blue lights, and then (like man}^ reputations) disappeared 
totally : the hundredth gun on the Invalid terrace has uttered 
its last roar — and a great comfort it is for ej-es and ears that 
the festival is over. We shall be able to go about our every- 
day business again, and not be hustled by the gendarmes or the 
crowd. 

The sight which I have just come away from is as brilliant, 
happy,, and beautiful as can be conceived ; and if you want to 
see French people to the greatest advantage, you should go 
to a festival like this, where their manners, and innocent gayety, 
show a very pleasing contrast to the coarse and vulgar hilarity 
which the same class would exhibit in our own country — at 
Epsom racecourse, for instance, or Greenwich Fair. The great- 
est noise that I heard was that of a company of jolly villagers* 



38 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

from a place in the neighborhood of Paris, who, as soon as the 
fireworks were over, formed themselves into a Hne, three or 
four abreast, and so marched singing h^me. As for the fire- 
works, squibs and crackers are ver}' hard to describe, and very 
Httle was to be seen of them: to me, the prettiest sight was 
the vast, orderly, happy crowd, the number of children, and the 
extraordinary care and kindness of the parents towards these 
little creatures. It does one good to see honest, heavy epiciers^ 
fathers of famiUes, playing with them in the Tuileries, or, as 
to-night, bearing them stoutly on their shoulders, through many 
long hours, in order that the little ones too may have their share 
of the fun. John Bull, I fear, is more selfish : he does not take 
Mrs. Bull to the public-house ; but leaves her, for the most 
part, to take care of the children at home. 

The fete, then, is over ; the pompous black pyramid at the 
Louvre is only a skeleton now ; all the flags have been miracu- 
lously whisked away during the night, and the fine chandeliers 
which glittered down the Champs Elysees for full half a mile, 
have been consigned to their dens and darkness. Will they 
ever be reproduced for other celebrations of the glorious 29th 
of Jul}^ ? — I think not ; the Government which vowed that there 
should be no more persecutions of the press, was, on that very 
29th, seizing a Legitimist paper, for some real or fancied ofifence 
against it : it had seized, and was seizing daily, numbers of 
persons merety suspected of being disafl'ected (and you may 
fancy how libert}^ is understood, when some of these prisoners, 
the other day, on coming to trial, were found guilty and sen- 
tenced to one day's imprisonment, after thirty-six days' detention 
on suspicion) . I think the Government which follows such a 
system, cannot be very anxious about any farther revolutionary 
fetes, and that the Chamber may reasonably refuse to vote more 
money for them. Why should men be so mighty proud of hav- 
ing, on a certain day, cut a certain number of their fellow- 
countrymen's throats ? The Guards and the Line employed this 
time nine years did no more than those who cannonaded the 
starving Lyonnese, or bayoneted the luckless inhabitants of 
the Rue Transnounain : — they did but fulfil the soldier's hon- 
orable duty : — his superiors bid him kill and he killeth : — per- 
haps, had he gone to his work with a little more heart, the 
result would have been diflferent, and then — would the conquer- 
ing party have been justified in annually rejoicing over the 
conquered? Would we have thought Charles X. justified in 
causing fireworks to be blazed, and concerts to be sung, and 
speeches to be spouted, in commemoration of his victory over 



THE FETES OF JULY. 39 

his slaughtered countrymen ? — I wish for my part they would 
allow the people to go about their business as on the other 362 
days of the year, and leave the Champs Elj-sees free for the 
omnibuses to run, and the Tuileries in quifet, so that the nurse- 
maids might come as usual, and the newspapers be read for a 
halfpenny apiece. 

Shall I trouble you with an account of the speculations of 
these latter, and the state of the jjarties which the}" represent? 
The complication is not a little curious, and may form, perhaps, 
a subject of graver disquisition. The Jul}^ fetes occupy, as 
you may imagine, a considerable part of their columns just 
now, and it is amusing to follow them one by one ; to read 
Tweedledum's praise, and Tweedledee's indignation — to read, 
in the Dehats how the King was received with shouts and loyal 
vivats — in the Nation^ how not a tongue was wagged in his 
praise, but, on the instant of his departure, how the people 
called for the " Marseillaise" and applauded that. — But best 
sa}' no more about the fete. The Legitimists were always in- 
dignant at it. The high Philippist party sneers at and despises 
it ; the Republicans hate it : it seems a joke against them. 
Why continue it ? — If there be anything sacred in the name 
and idea of loyaltj^, wh}" renew this fete ? It only shows how 
a rightful monarch was hurled from his throne, and a dexterous 
usurper stole his precious diadem. If there be anything noble 
in the memory of a day, when citizens, unused to war, rose 
against practised veterans, and, armed with the strength of 
their cause, overthrew them, why speak of it now? or renew 
the bitter recollections of the bootless struggle and victor}^? 
O Lafayette ! O hero of two worlds ! O accomplished Crom- 
well Grandison ! you have to answer for more than any mor- 
tal man who has played a part in history ; two repubUcs and 
one monarchy does the world owe to you ; and especially 
grateful should your countrj- be to 3'ou. Did you not, in '90, 
make clear the path for honest RobespieiTC, and in '30, pre- 
pare the way for — 

. . . r . 

[The Editor of the Bungay Beacon would insert no more 
of this letter, which is, therefore, for ever lost to the public] 



ON THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING: 

WITH APPROPRIATE ANECDOTES, ILLUSTRATIONS, 
AND PHILOSOPHICAL DISQUISITIONS. 

IN A LETTER TO MR. MACGILP, OF LONDON. 



The three collections of pictures at the Louvi'e, the Luxem- 
bourg, and the Ecole des Beaux Arts, contain a number of 
specimens of French art, since its commencement almost, and 
give the stranger a pretty fair opportunity to study and appre- 
ciate the school. The French list of painters contains some 
very good names — no very great ones, except Poussin (unless 
the admirers of Claude choose to rank him among great paint- 
ers), — and I think the school was never in so flourishing a 
condition as it is at the present day. They say there are three 
thousand artists in this town alone : of these a handsome mi- 
nority paint not merel}^ tolerably, but well understand their busi- 
ness : draw the figure accuratel}^ ; sketch with cleverness ; and 
paint portraits, churches, or restaurateurs' shops, in a decent 
manner. 

To account for a superiority over England — which, I think, 
as reo-ards art, is incontestable — it must be remembered that 
the painter's trade, in France, is a very good one ; better ap- 
preciated, better understood, and, generally, far better paid 
than with us. There are a dozen excellent schools which a lad 
may enter here, and, under the eye of a practised master, learn 
the apprenticeship of his art at an expense of about ten pounds 
a year. In England there is no school except the Academy, 
unless the student can afford to pay a very large sum, and place 
himself under the tuition of some particular artist. Here, a 
,young man, for his ten pounds, has all sorts of accessory in- 
struction, models, &c. ; and has further, and for nothing, num. 
berless incitements to study his profession which are not to be 
found in England : — the streets are filled with picture-shops, 



THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 41 

the people themselves are pictures walking about ; the churches, 
theatres, eating-houses, concert-rooms are covered with pic- 
tures : Nature itself is inclined more kindly to him, for the sky 
is a thousand times more bright and beautiful, and the sun 
shines for the greater part of the year. Add to this, incite- 
ments more selfish, but quite as powerful: a French artist is 
paid ver}^ handsomely ; for five hundred a year is much where 
all are poor ; and has a rank in society rather above his merits 
than below them, being caressed by hosts and hostesses in 
places where titles are laughed at and a baron is thought of no 
more account than a banker's clerk. 

The life of the young artist here is the easiest, merriest, 
dirtiest existence possible. He comes to Paris, probably at 
sixteen, from his province ; his parents settle forty pounds a 
year on him, and pay his master ; he estabUshes himself in 
the Pays Latin, or in the new quarter of Notre Dame de 
Lorette (which is quite peopled with painters) ; he arrives at 
his atelier at a tolerabl}'- earh^ hour, and labors among a score 
of companions as merry and poor as himself. Each gentleman 
has his favorite tobacco-pipe ; and the pictures are painted in 
the midst of a cloud of smoke, and a din of puns and choice 
French slang, and a roar of choruses, of which no one can form 
an idea who has not been present at such an assembl3\ 

You see here every variety of coiffure that has ever been 
known. Some j^oung men of genius have ringlets hanging over 
their shoulders — you may smell the tobacco with which they are 
scented across the street ; some have straight locks, black, oily, 
and redundant ; some have toupets in the famous Louis-Philippe 
fashion ; some are cropped close ; some have adopted the pres- 
ent mode — which he who would follow must, in order to do 
so, part his hair in the middle, grease it with grease, and gum 
it with gum, and iron it flat down over his ears ; when arrived 
at the ears, you take the tongs and make a couple of ranges of 
curls close round the whole head, — such curls as you may see 
under a gilt three-cornered hat, and in her Britannic Majesty's 
coachman's state wig. 

>• This is the last fashion. As for the beards, there is no end 
of them ; all my friends the artists have beards who can raise 
them ; and Nature, though she has rather stinted the bodies and 
limbs of the French nation, has been very liberal to them of 
hair, as j^ou may see by the following specimen.* Fancy these 
heads and beards under all sorts of caps — Chinese caps. Man- 
darin caps, Greek skull-caps, English jockey-caps, Russian or 
* This refers to an illustrated edition of the work. 



42 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Kuzzilbash caps, Middle-age caps (such as are called, in 
heraldiy, caps of maintenance), Spanish nets, and striped 
worsted nightcaps. Fancy all the jackets you have ever seen, 
and you have before 3"ou, as well as pen can describe, the cos- 
tumes of these indescribable Frenchmen. 

In this company and costume the French student of art 
passes his daj^s and acquires knowledge ; how he passes his 
evenings, at what theatres, at what guinguettes^ in company- with 
what seducing little milliner, there is no need to sa}" ; but 1 
knew one who pawned his coat to go to a carnival ball, and 
walked abroad ver^^ cheerfully in his blouse for six weeks, until 
he could redeem the absent garment. 

These young men (together with the students of sciences) 
comport themselves towards the sober citizen pretty much as 
the German hursch towards the philister^ or as the militar}^ man, 
during the empire, did to the pekin : — from the height of their 
povert}^ the}' look down upon him with the greatest imaginable 
scorn — a scorn, I think, by which the citizen seems dazzled, 
for his respect for the arts is intense. The case is ver}^ dif- 
ferent in England, where a grocer's daughter would think she 
made a misalliance by marr3dng a painter, and where a literary 
man (in spite of all we can say against it) ranks below that 
class of gentry composed of the apothecar}^, the attorney' , the 
wine-merchant, whose positions, in country' towns at least, are 
so equivocal. As, for instance, m}^ friend the Rev. James 
Asterisk, who has an undeniable pedigree, a paternal estate, 
and a living to boot, once dined in Warwickshire, in company 
with several squires and parsons of that enlightened county. 
Asterisk, as usual, made himself extraordinarily agreeable at 
dinner, and delighted all present with his learning and wit. 
"Who is that monstrous pleasant fellow?" said one of the 
squires. "Don't you know?" replied another. "It's As- 
terisk, the author of so-and-so, and a famous contributor to 
such and such a magazine." " Good heavens ! " said the squire, 
quite horrified ! "a literar}^ man ! I thought he had been a 
gentleman ! " 

Another instance : M. Guizot, when he was Minister here, 
had the grand hotel of the Ministry', and gave entertainments 
to all the great de par le monde^ as Brantome says, and enter- 
tained them in a proper ministerial magnificence. The splendid 
and beautiful Duchess of Dash was at one of his ministerial 
parties ; and went, a fortnight afterwards, as in duty bound, to 
pay her respects to M. Guizot. But it happened, in this fort- 
night, that M. Guizot was Minister no longer ; having given up 



THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 43 

his portfolio, and iiis grand hotel, to retire into private life, and 
to occup}^ his humble apartments in the house which he pos- 
sesses, and of which he lets the greater portion. A friend 
of mine was present at one of the ex-Minister's soirees, where 
the Duchess of Dash made her appearance. He says the 
Duchess, at her entrance, seemed quite astounded, and ex- 
amined the premises with a most curious wonder. Two or three 
shabby little rooms, with ordinary furniture, and a Minister 
en retraite, who lives by letting lodgings ! In our country was 
ever such a thing heard of ? No, thank heaven ! and a Briton 
ought to be proud of the difference. 

But to our muttons. This country is surely the paradise of 
painters and penny-a-liners ; and when one reads of M. Horace 
Vernet at Rome, exceeding ambassadors at Rome by his mag- 
nificence, and leading such a hfe as Rubens or Titian did 
of old ; when one sees M. Thiers's grand villa in the Rue St. 
George (a dozen years ago he was not even a penn3^-a-liner : no 
such luck) ; when one contemplates, in imagination, M. Gudin, 
the marine painter, too lame to walk through the picture-gallery 
of the Louvre, accommodated, therefore, with a wheel-cli'?ii:)ff 
privilege of princes only, and accompanied — nay, for what I 
know, actually trundled — down the gallery by majesty itself 
— who does not long to make one of the great nation, exchange 
his native tongue for the melodious jabber of France ; or, at 
least, adopt it for his native countr}^ like Marshal Saxe, 
Napoleon, and Anacharsis Clootz? Noble people! they made 
Tom Paine a deputy ; and as for Tom Macaula}^, they would 
make a dynasty of him. 

Well, this being the case, no wonder there are so man}^ 
painters in France ; and here, at least, we are back to them. 
At the Ecole Roy ale des Beaux Arts, 3'ou see two or three 
hundred specimens of their performances ; all the prize-men, 
since 1750, I think, being bound to leave their prize sketch or 
picture. Can an3'thing good come out of the Royal Academy? 
is a question which has been considerabl}" mooted in England 
(in the neighborhood of Suffolk Street especially). The hun- 
dreds of French samples are, I think, not ver}^ satisfactory. The 
subjects are almost all what are called classical : Orestes pur- 
sued by every variet}^ of Furies ; numbers of little wolf-suck- 
ing Romuluses ; Hectors and 'Andromaches in a complication 
of parting embraces, and so forth ; for it was the absurd maxim 
of our forefathers, that because these subjects had been the 
fashion twenty- centuries ago, they must remain so in scecula 
sceculorum ; because to these loft}- heights giants had scaled. 



44 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

behold the race of pigmies must get upon stilts and jump at 
them likewise ! and on the canvas, and in the theatre, the 
French frogs (excuse the pleasantry) were instructed to swell 
out and roar as much as possible like bulls. 

What was the consequence, my dear friend? In trying to 
make themselves into bulls, the frogs make themselves into 
jackasses, as might be expected. For a hundred and ten 3'ears 
the classical humbug oppressed the nation ; and you may see, in 
this gallerj^ of the Beaux Arts, seventy years'- specimens of the 
dulness which it engendered. 

Now, as Nature made every man with a nose and ej^es of 
his own, she gave him a character of his own too ; and yet we, 
O foolish race ! must tr}' our ver}^ best to ape some one or two 
of our neighbors, whose ideas fit us no more than their breeches ! 
It is the study of nature, surely, that profits us, and not of these 
imitations of her. A man, as a man, from a dustman up to 
^schylus, is God's work, and good to read, as all works of 
Nature are : but the silly animal is never content ; is ever 
trying to fit itself into another shape ; wants to deny its own 
'fircTxtifyr, and has not the courage to utter its own thoughts. 
Et^iriVse Lord Byron was wicked, and quarrelled with the 
world ; and found himself growing fat, and quarrelled with 
liis victuals, and thus, natural^, grew ill-humored, did not half 
Europe grow ill-humored too? Did not every poet feel his 
3'oung affections withered, and despair and darkness cast 
upon his soul ? Because certain might}' men of old could make 
heroical statues and plays, must we not be told that there is no 
other beauty but classical beauty ? — must not every little whip- 
ster of a French poet chalk you out pla3^s, " Henriades," and 
such-like, and vow that here was the real thing, the undeniable 
Kalon? 

The undeniable fiddlestick ! For a hundred 3^ears, my dear 
sir, the world was humbugged b}' the so-called classical artists, 
as they now are by what is called the Christian art (of which 
anon) ; and it is curious to look at the pictorial traditions as 
here handed down. The consequence of them is, that scarce 
one of the classical pictures exhibited is worth much more than 
two-and-sixpence. Borrowed from statuarj-, in the first place, 
the color of the paintings seems, as much as possible, to par- 
ticipate in it; the}' are mostly of a misty, stony green, dismal 
hue, as if they had been painted in a world where no color was. 
In every picture, there are, of course, white mantles, white urns, 
white columns, white statues — those oblige accomplishments of 
the sublime. There are the endless straight noses, long eyes, 



THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 45 

round chins, short upper lips, just as they are ruled down for 
you in the drawing-books, as if the latter were the revelations 
of beauty, issued by supreme authority, from which there was 
no appeal? Why is the classical reign to endure? Why is 
yonder simpering Venus de' Medicis to be our standard of 
beauty, or the Greek tragedies to bound our notions of the 
sublime? There was no reason wh}' Agamemnon should set 
the fashions, and remain dva$ av^p^v to eternity : and there is 
a classical quotation, which 3'ou may have occasionally heard, 
beginning Vixere fortes^ &c., which, as it avers that there were 
a great number of stout fellows before Agamemnon, ma}^ not 
unreasonably induce us to conclude that similar heroes were to 
succeed him. Shakspeare made a better man when his imagi- 
nation moulded the mighty figure of Macbeth. And if you will 
measure Satan b}^ Prometheus, the blind old Puritan's work by 
that of the fierj^ Grecian poet, does not Milton's angel surpass 
JEschylus's — surpass him by " many a rood?" 

In the same school of the Beaux Arts, where are to be found 
such a number of pale imitations of the antique, Monsieur 
Thiers (and he ought to be thanked for it) has caused to be 
placed a full-sized copy of "The Last Judgment" of Michel 
Angelo, and a number of casts from statues by the same 
splendid hand. There is the sublime, if you please — a new 
sublime — an original sublhne — quite as sublime as the Greek 
sublime. See j^onder, in the midst of his angels, the Judge of 
the world descending in glory ; and near him, beautiful and 
gentle, and yet indescribably august and pure, the Virgin by 
his side. There is the " Moses," the grandest figure that ever 
was carved in stone. It has about it something frightfully 
majestic, if one may so speak. In examining this, and the 
astonishing picture of " The Judgment," or even a single figure 
of it, the spectator's sense amounts almost to pain. I would 
not like to be left in a room alone with the "Moses." How 
did the artist live amongst them, and create them? How did 
he suffer the painful labor of invention? One fancies that he 
would have been scorched up, like Semele, hy sights too tremen- 
dous for his vision to bear. One cannot imagine him, with our 
small physical endowments and weaknesses, a man like ourselves. 

As for the Ecole Roy ale des Beaux Arts, then, and all the 
good its students have done, as students, it is stark naught. 
When the men did anything, it was after they had left the 
academ}', and began thinking for themselves. There is only 
one picture among the many hundreds that has, to my idea, 
much merit (a charming composition of Homer singing, signed 



46 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Joiirdy) ; and the only good that the Academy has done by its 
pupils was to send them to Rome, wh^e they might learn better 
things. At home, the intolerable, stupid classicalities, taught 
by men who, belonging to the least erudite country in Europe, 
were themselves, from their profession, the least learned among 
their countr3aiien, only weighed the pupils down, and cramped 
their hands, their eyes, and their imaginations ; drove them away 
from natural beauty, which, thank God, is fresh and attainable 
by us all, to-day, and yesterday, and to-morrow ; and sent them 
rambling after artificial grace, without the proper means of 
judging or attaining it. 

A word for the building of the Palais des Beaux Arts. It 
is beautiful, and as well finished and convenient as beautiful. 
With its light and elegant fabric, its pretty fountain, its arch- 
way of the Renaissance^ and fragments of sculpture, 3^ou can 
hardly see, on a fine da}^, a place more riant and pleasing. 

Passing from thence up the picturesque Rue de Seine, let us 
walk to the Luxembourg, where bonnes, students, grisettes, 
and old gentlemen with pigtails, love to wander in the melan- 
choly, quaint old gardens ; where the peers have a new and 
comfortable court of justice, to judge all the emeutes which are 
to take place ; and where, as everybody knows, is the picture- 
gallery of modern French artists, whom government thinks 
worthy of patronage. 

A very great proportion of the pictures, as we see by the 
catalogue, are by the students whose works we have just been 
to visit at the Beaux Arts, and who, having performed their 
pilgrimage to Rome, have taken rank among the professors of 
the art. I don't know a more pleasing exhibition ; for there 
are not a dozen really bad pictures in the collection, some 
very good, and the rest showing great skill and smartness of 
execution. 

In the same way, however, that it has been supposed that 
no man could be a great poet unless he wrote a very big poem, 
the tradition is kept up among the painters, and we have here 
a vast number of large canvases, with figures of the proper 
heroical length and nakedness. The anticlassicists did not arise 
in France until about 1827 ; and, in consequence, up to that 
period, we have here the old classical faith in full vigor. There 
is Brutus, having chopped his son's head oflT, with all the agony 
of a father, and then, caUing for number two ; there is ^neas 
carrying oflf old Anchises ; there are Paris and Venus, as 
naked as two Hottentots, and many more such choice subjects 
from Lempriere. 



THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 47 

But the chief specimens of the sublime are in the wa}^ of 
murders, with which the catalogue swarms. Here are a few 
extracts from it : — 

7. Beaume, Chevalier de la Legion d'Honneur. " The Grand Dauplii- 
ness Dying. 

18. Blondel, Clievalier de la, &c. " Zenobia found Dead." 
36. Debay, Chevalier. " The Death of Lucretia." 

38. Dejuinne. "The Death of Hector." 

34. Court, Chevalier de la, &c. " The Death of Caesar." 

39, 40, 41. Delacroix, Chevalier. " Dante and Virgil in the Infernal 
Lake," " The Massacre of Scio," and " Medea going to Murder her Chil- 
dren." 

43. Delaroche, Chevalier. " Joas taken from among the Dead." 

44. " The Death of Queen Elizabeth." 

45. "Edward V. and his Brother" (preparing for death). 

50. " Hecuba going to be Sacrificed." Drolling, Chevalier. 

51. Dubois. " Young Clovis found Dead." 

56. Henry, Chevalier. " The Massacre of St. Bartholomew." 
75. Guerin, Chevalier. " Cain, after the Death of Abel." 
8-3. Jacquand. " Death of Adelaide de Comminges." 
88. " The Death of Eudaraidas." 
93. "The Death of Hymetto." 
103. " The Death of Philip of Austria." — And so on. 

You see what woful subjects they take, and how profusely 
the}^ are decorated with knighthood. They are like the Black 
Brunswickers, these painters, and ought to be called Chevaliers 
de la Mort. I don't know why the merriest people in the world 
should please themselves with such grim representations and 
varieties of murder, or why murder itself should be considered 
so eminently sublime and poeticaL It is good at the end of a 
tragedy ; but, then, it is good because it is the end, and be- 
cause, by the events foregone, the mind is prepared for it. 
But these men will have nothing but fifth acts ; and seem to 
skip, as unworthy, all the circumstances leading to them. 
This, however, is part of the scheme — the bloated, unnatural, 
stilted, spouting, sham sublime, that our teachers have believed 
and tried to pass off as real, and which your humble servant 
and other antihumbuggists should heartily, according to the 
strength that is in them, endeavor to pull down. What, for 
instance, could Monsieur Lafond care about the death of Euda- 
midas ? What was Hecuba to Chevalier Drolling, or Chevalier 
Drolling to Hecuba ? I would la}' a wager that neither of them 
ever conjugated rvimsi^ and that their school learning carried 
them not as far as the letter, but only to the game of taw. 
How were they to be inspired b}^ such subjects ? From having 
seen Talma and Mademoiselle Georges flaunting in sham Greek 



48 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

costumes, and having read up the articles Eudamidas, Hecuba, 
in the " Mythological Dictionar3^" What a classicism, inspired 
bj' rouge, gas-lamps, and a few lines in Lempriere, and copied, 
half from ancient statues, and half from a naked guardsman at 
'one shilling and sixpence the hour ! 

Delacroix is a man of a very different genius, and his " Me- 
dea " is a genuine creation of a noble fancy. For most of the 
others, Mrs. Brownrigg, and her two female 'prentices, would 
have done as w^ell as the desperate Colchian with her reKva 
(jiiXraTa. M. Delacroix has produced a number of rude, bar- 
barous pictures ; but there is the stamp of genius on all of 
them, — the great poetical mte?ition, which is worth all j^our 
execution. Delaroche is another man of high merit ; with not 
such a great heart, perhaps, as the other, but a fine and careful 
draughtsman, and an excellent arranger of his subject. " The 
Death of Elizabeth " is a raw young performance seemingly — 
not, at least, to my taste. The '' Enfans d'Edouard " is re- 
nowned over Europe, and has appeared in a hundred different 
waj^s in print. It is properly pathetic and gloom}^, and merits 
full}" its high reputation. This painter rejoices in such subjects 
— in what Lord Portsmouth* used to call "black jobs." He 
has killed Charles I. and Lady Jane Grey, and the Dukes of 
Guise, and I don't know whom besides. He is, at present, 
occupied with a vast work at the Beaux Arts, where the writer 
of this had the honor of seeing him, — a little, keen-looking 
man, some five feet in height. He wore, on this important 
occasion, a bandanna round his head, and was in the act of 
smoking a cigar. 

Horace Vernet, whose beautiful daughter Delaroche mar- 
ried, is the king of French battle-painters — an amazingl}^ rapid 
anci dexterous draughtsman, who has Napoleon and all the 
campaigns by heart, and has painted the Grenadier Fran9ais 
under all sorts of attitudes. His pictures on such subjects are 
spirited, natural, and excellent ; and he is so clever a man, 
that all he does is good to a certain degree. His "Judith" 
is somewhat violent, perhaps. His "Rebecca" most pleas- 
ing ; and not the less so for a little prett}^ affectation of atti- 
tude and needless singularity of costume. " Raphael and 
Michael Angelo " is as clever a picture as can be — clever is 
just the word — the groups and drawing excellent, the color- 
ing pleasantl}' bright and gaudy ; and the French students 
study it incessantly ; there are a dozen who copy it for one 
who copies Delacroix. His little scraps of wood-cuts, in the 
now publishing " Life of Napoleon," are perfect gems in their 



THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 49 

way, and the noble price paid for them not a penny more than 
he merits. « 

The picture, by Court, of "The Death of C^sar," is re- 
markable for effect and excellent workmanship : and the head 
of Brutus (who looks like Armand Carrel) is full of energy. 
There are some beautiful heads of women, and some ver^^ good 
color in the picture. Jacquand's " Death of Adelaide de Com- 
ininges" is neither more nor less than beautiful. Adelaide 
had, it appears, a lover, who betook himself to a convent of 
Trappists. She followed him thither, disguised as a man, 
took the vows, and was not discovered by him till on her 
death-bed. The painter has told this story 'in a most pleasing 
and affecting manner : the picture is full of onction and melan- 
choly grace. The objects, too, are capitally represented ; and 
the tone and color very good. Decaisne's " Guardian Angel" 
is not so good in color, but is equally beautiful in expression 
and grace. A little child and a nurse are asleep : an angel 
watches the infant. You see women look very wistfully at 
this sweet picture ; and what triumph would a painter have 
more? 

We must not quit the Luxembourg without noticing the 
dashing sea-pieces of Gudin, and one or two landscapes by 
Giroux (the plain of Grasivaudan), and "The Prometheus" 
of Aligny. This is an imitation, perhaps ; as is a noble picture 
of "Jesus Christ and the Children," by Flandrin : but the 
artists are imitating better models, at an}' rate ; and one be- 
gins to perceive that the odious classical dynasty is no more. 
Poussin's magnificent ' ' Pol3'phemus " (I onl}'- know a print of 
that marvellous composition) has, perhaps, suggested the first- 
named pictujL'e ; and the latter has been inspired b}' a good 
enthusiastic study of the Roman schools. 

Of this revolution, Monsieur Ingres has been one of the 
chief instruments. He was, before Horace Vernet, president of 
the French Academy at Rome, and is famous as a chief of a 
school. When he broke up his atelier here, to set out for his 
presidency, many of his pupils attended him faithfully some 
way on his journey ; and some, with scarcely a penn}' in their 
pouches, walked through France and across the Alps, in a pious 
pilgrimage to Rome, being determined not to forsake their old 
master. Such an action was worthy of them, and of the high 
rank which their profession holds in France, where the honors 
to be acquired b}^ art are only inferior to those which are gained 
in war. One reads of such peregrinations in old daj's, when the 
scholars of some great Italian painter followed him from Venice 

4 



50 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

to Rome, or from Florence to Ferrara. In regard of Ingres' s 
individual mevk, as a painter, the writer of this is not a fair 
judge, having seen but three pictures b}^ him ; one being sl pla- 
fond in the Louvre, which his disciples much admire. 

Ingres stands between the Imperio-Davido-classical school 
of French art, and the namby-pamby m3^stical German school, 
which is for carrying us back to Cranach and Durer, and which 
is making progress here. 

For everj'thing here finds imitation : the French have the 
genius of imitation and caricature. This absurd humbug, called 
the Christian or Catholic art, is sure to tickle our neighbors, 
and will be a favorite with them, when better known. My dear 
MacGilp, I do believe this to be a greater humbug than the 
humbug of David and Girodet, inasmuch as the latter was 
founded on Nature at least ; whereas the former is made up of 
silty affectations, and improvements upon Nature. Here, for 
instance, is Chevalier Ziegler's picture of " St. Luke painting 
the Virgin." St. Luke has a monk's dress on, embroidered, 
however, smartly round the sleeves. The Virgin sits in an 
immense 3^ellow-ochre halo, with her son in her arms. She 
looks preternaturally solemn ; as does St. Luke, who is eying 
his paint-brush with an intense ominous m3'stical look. The}^ 
call this Catholic art. There is nothing, my dear friend, more 
easy in life. First take 3'Our colors, and rub them down clean, 
— bright carmine, bright }'ellow, bright sienna, bright ultra- 
marine, bright green. Make the costumes of A-our figures as 
much as possible like the costumes of the early part of the 
fifteenth centur}- . Paint them in with the above colors ; and if 
on a gold ground, the more "Catholic" your art is. Dress 
yoviY apostles like priests before the altar ; and remember to 
have a good commodity of crosiers, censers, and other such gim- 
cracks, as 3'ou may see in the Catholic chapels, in Sutton Street 
and elsewhere. Deal in Virgins, and dress them like a burgo- 
master's wife by Cranach or Van Eyck. Give them all long- 
twisted tails to their gowns, and proper angular draperies. 
Place all their heads on one side, with the e3^es shut, and the 
proper solemn simper. At the back of the head, draw, and 
gild with gold-leaf, a halo or glory, of the exact shape of a 
cart-wheel : and 3''ou have the thing done. It is Catholic art 
tont crache^ as Louis Philippe sa3^s. Webave it still in England, 
handed down to us for four centuries, in the pictures on the 
cards, as the redoubtable king and queen of clubs. Look at 
them : vou will see that the costumes and attitudes are pre- 



lifiliiiiiilf^^ 



I mil I I 

lliMllllM'iilllnillllllllllii 




;|::J||ii«'' 



IlilfA'S 11,,, , 



'i!i|P 
III 



THE FKENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 51 

cisely similar to those which figure in the catholicities of the 
school of Overbeck and Cornelius. 

Before you take your cane at the door, look for one instant 
at the statue-room. Yonder is Jouffley's '• Jeune Fille confiant 
son premier secret a Venus." Charming, charming I It is 
from the exhibition of this year only ; and I think the best 
sculpture in the gallery — prett}', fanciful, naive ; admirable in 
workmanship and imitation of Nature. I have seldom seen 
flesh better represented in marble. Examine, also, Jaley's 
*' Pudeur," Jacquot's "Nymph," and Rude's "Boy with the 
Tortoise." These are not very exalted subjects, or what are 
called exalted, and do not go beyond simple, smiling beauty 
and nature. But what tlien? Are we gods, Miltons, Michel 
Angelos, that can leave earth when we please, and soar to 
heights immeasurable ? No, my dear MacGilp ; but the fools 
of academicians would fain make us so. Are you not, and half 
the painters in London, panting for an opportunity- to show 
your genius in a great "historical picture?" O blind race I 
Have you wings ? Not a feather : and yet you must be ever 
puffing, sweating up to the tops of rugged hills ; and, arrived 
there, clapping and shaking your ragged elbows, and making 
as if vou would fly I Come down, silly Daedalus ; come down 
to the lowl}' places in which Natui-e ordered 3-ou to walk. The 
sweet flowers are springing there ; the fat muttons are waiting 
there ; the pleasant sun shines there ; be content and humble, 
and take 3'our share of the good cheer. 

While we have been indulging in this discussion, the omni- 
bus has gayly conducted us across the water : and le garde qui 
veille a la parte du Louvre ne defend pas our entr}-. 

What a paradise this gallery is for French students, or for- 
eigners who sojourn in the capital ! It is hardly necessar}' to 
say that the brethren of the brush are not usualh^ suppliecl b}' 
Fortune vdth. an}' extraordinary wealth, or means of enjo3ing 
the luxuries with which Paris, more than an}' other city, 
abounds. But here the}' have a luxury which sur^^asses all 
others, and spend their days in a palace which all the money of 
all the Rothschilds could not buy. They sleep, perhaps, in a 
garre^, ""^'^ in a cellar ; but no grandee in Europe has such 

a drawing-rOoiu. Kings' houses have, at best, but damask 
hangings, and gilt cornices. What are these to a wall covered 
with canvas by Paul Veronese, or a hundred yards of Rubens? 
Artists from England, who have a national gallery that re- 
sembles a moderate-sized gin-shop, who may not copy pictures, 
except under particular restrictions, and on rare and particular 



52 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

da3^s, may revel here to their hearts' content. Here is a room 
half a mile long, with as man}^ windows as Aladdin's palace, 
open from sunrise till evening, and free to all manners and all 
varieties of stud}' : the only puzzle to the student is to select 
the one he shall begin upon, and keep his e3'es away from the 
rest. 

Fontaine's grand staircase, with its arches, and painted ceil- 
ings and shining Doric columns, leads directl}^ to the gallery ; 
but it is thought too fine for working days, and is onl}' opened 
for the public entrance on Sabbath. A little bade stair (leading 
from a court, in which stand numerous bas-reliefs, and a solemn 
sphinx, of po.l^bed granite,) is the common entr}- for students 
and others, who, during the week, enter the galler}^ 

Hither have latelj^ been transported a number of the works 
of French artists, which formerl}^ covered the walls of the Lux- 
embourg (death only entitles the French painter to a place in, 
the Louvre) ; and let us confine ourselves to the Frenchmen 
only, for the space of this letter. 

I have seen, in a fine private collection at St. Germain, one 
or two admirable single figures of David, full of life, truth, and 
gayety. The color is not good, but all the rest excellent ; and 
one of these so much-lauded pictures is the portrait of a washer- 
woman. " Pope Pius," at the Louvre, is as bad in color as 
remarkable for its vigor and look of life. The man had a genius 
for painting portraits and common life, but must attempt the 
heroic ; — failed signally ; and what is worse, carried a whole 
nation blundering after him. Plad you told a Frenchman so, 
twent}^ years ago, he would have thrown the dementi in 3^our 
teeth ; or, at least, laughed at you in scornful incredulit}^ 
They say of us that we don't know when we are beaten : they 
go a step further, and swear their defeats are victories. David 
was a part of the glor}^ of the empire ; and one might as well 
have said then that " Romulus " was a bad picture, as that 
Toulouse was a lost battle. Old-fashioned people, who believe 
in the Emperor, believe in the Theatre Fran9ais, and believe 
that Duels improved upon Shakspeare, have the above opinion. 
Still, it is curious to remark, in this place, how art and litera- 
ture become party matters, and political sects have their favor- 
ite painters and authors. 

Nevertheless, Jacques Louis David is dead. He died about 
a year after his bodily demise in 1825. The romanticism killed 
him. Walter Scott, from his Castle of Abbotsford, sent out a 
troop of gallant young Scotch adventurers, merry outlaws, A^al- 
iant knights, and savage Highlanders, who, with trunk hosen 



THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 53 

and buff jerkins, fierce two-handed swords, and harness on their 
back, did challenge, combat, and overcome the heroes and demi- 
gods of Greece and Rome. Notre Dame a la rescoussel Sir 
Brian de Bois Guilbert has borne Hector of Troy clear out of 
his saddle. Andromache may weep : but her spouse is beyond 
the reach of physic. See ! Robin Hood twangs his bow, and 
the heathen gods fly, howling. Montjoie Saint Denis! down 
goes Ajax under the'^mace of Uunois ; and yonder are Leonidas 
and Romulus begging their lives of Rob Roy Macgregor. Clas- 
sicism is dead. Sir John Froissart has taken Dr. Lempriere by 
the nose, and reigns sovereign. 

Of the great pictures of David the defuiicl^' we need not, 
then, say much. Romulus is a mighty fine young fellow, no 
doubt ; and if he has come out to battle stark naked (except a 
very handsome helmet) , it is because the costume became him, 
and shows off his figure to advantage. But was there ever any- 
thing so absurd as this passion for the nude, which was fol- 
lowed by all the painters of the Davidian epoch ? And how are 
we to suppose yonder straddle to be the true characteristic of 
the heroic and the subUme ? Romulus stretches his legs as far 
as ever nature will allow ; the Horatii, in receiving their swords, 
think proper to stretch their legs too, and to thrust forward their 
arms, thus, — 



Bomulus. The Horatii. 



Romulus's is in the exact action of a telegraph ; and the Horatii 
are all in the position of the lunge. Is this the sublime? Mr. 
Angelo, of Bond Street, might admu'e the attitude ; his name- 
sake, Michel, I don't think would. 

The little picture of " Paris and Helen," one of the master's 
earliest, I believe, is likewise one of his best : the details are 
exquisitely painted. Helen looks needlessly sheepish, and Paris 
has a most odious ogle ; but the limbs of the male figure are 
beautifull}^ designed, and have not the green tone which 3^ou see 
in the later ]oictures of the master. What is the meaning of this 
green? Was it the fashion, or the varnish? Girodet's pictures 
are green ; Gros's emperors and grenadiers have universall}^ 
the jaundice. Gerard's "Psyche" has a most decided green- 
sickness ,• and I am at a loss, I confess, to account for the 



54 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

enthusiasm which this performance inspired on its first appear- 
ance before the public. 

In the same room with it is Girodet's ghastl}^ "Deluge," 
and Gericault's dismal " Medusa." Gericault died, they say, 
for want of fame. He was a man who possessed a considerable 
fortune of his own ; but pined because no one in his day would 
purchase his pictures, and so acknowledge his talent. At pres- 
ent, a scrawl from his pencil brings an enormous price. All 
his works have a grand cachet: he never did anything mean. 
When he painted the " Raft of the Medusa," it is said he lived 
for a long time among the corpses which he painted, and that 
his studio was a second Morgue. If you have not seen the 
picture, you are familiar, probably, with Reynolds's admirable 
engraving of it. A huge black sea ; a raft beating upon it ; a 
horrid company of men dead, half dead, writhing and frantic 
with hideous hunger or hideous hope ; and, far away, black, 
against a stormy sunset, a sail. The story is powerfully told, 
and has a legitimate tragic interest, so to speak, — deeper, 
because more natural, than Girodet's green " Deluge," for in- 
stance : or his livid " Orestes," or red-hot " Clytemnestra." 

Seen from a distance the latter's " Deluge" has a certain 
awe-inspiring air with it. A slimy green man stands on a 
green rock, and clutches hold of a tree. On the green man's 
shoulders is his old father, in a green old age ; to him hangs his 
wife, with a babe on her breast, and dangling at her hair, an- 
other child. In the water floats a corpse (a beautiful head) ; 
and a green sea and atmosphere envelops all this dismal group. 
The old father is represented with a bag of money in his hand ; 
and the tree, which the man catches, is cracking, and just on 
the point of giving way. These two points were considered very 
fine by the critics : they are two such ghastly epigrams as con- 
tinually disfigure French Tragedy. For this reason I have 
never been able to read Racine with pleasure, — the dialogue 
is so crammed with these lugubrious good things — melancholy 
antitheses — sparkhng undertakers' wit ; but this is heresy, and 
had better be spoken discreetly. 

The gallery contains a vast number of Poussin's pictures ; 
they put me in mind of the color of objects in dreams, — a 
strange, hazy, lurid hue. How noble are some of his land- 
scapes ! What a depth of solemn shadow is in yonder wood, 
near which, by the side of a black water, halts Diogenes. The 
air is thunder-laden, and breathes heavily. You hear ominous 
whispers in the vast forest gloom. 

Near it is a landscape, by Carel Dujardin, I believe, conceived 



THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 55 

in quite a different mood, but exquisitely poetical too. A horse- 
man is riding up a hill, and giving mone}^ to a blows}" beggar- 
wench. matutini rores aurceque salubres! in what a wonderful 
way has the artist managed to create you out of a few bladders 
of paint and pots of varnish. You can see the matutinal dews 
twinkling in the grass, and feel the fresh, salubiious airs (" the 
breath of Nature blowing free," as the corn-law man sings) blow- 
ing free over the heath ; silvery vapors are rising up from the 
blue lowlands. You can tell the hour of the morning and the 
time of the 3'ear : 3'ou can do anything but describe it in words. 
As with regard to the Poussin above mentioned, one can never 
pass it without bearing away a certain pleasing, dream}' feeling 
of awe and musing; tlie other landscape inspires the spectator 
infallibly with the most delightful briskness and cheerfulness of 
spirit. Herein lies the vast privilege of the landscape-painter : 
he does not address you with one fixed particular subject or ex- 
pression, but with a thousand never contemplated by himself, 
and which only arise out of occasion. You may always be look- 
ing at a natural landscape as at a fine pictorial imitation of one ; 
it seems eternally producing new" thoughts in your bosom, as it 
does fresh beauties from its own. I cannot fancy more delight- 
ful, cheerful, silent companions for a man than half a dozen 
landscapes hung round his study. Portraits, on the contrary, 
and large pieces of figures, have a painful, fixed, staring look, 
which must jar upon the mind in many of its moods. Fancy 
living in a room with David's sans-culotte Leonidas staring per- 
petually in your face ! 

There is a little Watteau here, and a rare piece of fantastical 
brightness and gayety it is. What a delightful affectation about 
yonder ladies flirting their fans, and trailing about in their long 
brocades ! What splendid dandies are those, ever-smirking, 
turning out their toes, with broad blue ribbons to tie up their 
crooks and their pigtails, and wonderful gorgeous crimson satin 
breeches ! Yonder, in the midst of a golden atmosphere, rises 
a bevy of little round Cupids, bubbling up in clusters as out of a 
champagne-bottle, and melting away in air. There is, to be 
sure, a hidden analogy between liquors and pictures : the eye is 
deliciously tickled by these frisky Watteaus, and yields itself up 
to a light, smiling, gentlemanlike intoxication. Thus, were we 
inclined to pursue further tMis mighty subject, yonder landscape 
of Claude, — calm, fresh, delicate, yet full of flavor, — should 
be likened to a bottle of Chateau Margaux. And what is the 
Poussin before spoken of but Romanee Gelee ? — heavy, slug- 
gish, — the luscious odor almost sickens you ; a sultry sort of 



56 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

drink ; 3'our limbs sink under it ; 3'ou feel as if you had been 
drinking hot blood. 

An ordioaiy man would be whirled away in a fever, or would 
hobble off this mortal stage in a premature gout-fit, if he too 
early or too often indulged in such tremendous drink. I think 
in m}^ heart I am fonder of prett^^ third-rate pictures than of 
j'Our great thundering first-rates. Confess how many times 3'Ou 
have read Beranger, and how many Milton ? If you go to the 
" Star and Garter," don't 3^ou grow sick of that vast, luscious 
landscape, and long for the sight of a couple of cows, or a 
donke3', and a few yards of common? Donke3's, m3^ dear Mac- 
Gilp, since we have come to this subject, sa3' not so ; Richmond 
Hill for them. Milton they never grow tired of; and are as 
famihar with Raphael as Bottom with exquisite Titania. Let 
us thank heaven, my dear sir, for according to us the power to 
taste and appreciate the pleasures of mediocrit3\ 1 have never 
heard that we were great geniuses. Earth3^ are we, and of the 
earth ; glimpses of the subhme are but rare to us ; leave we 
them to great geniuses, and to the donkeys ; and if it nothing 
profit us aerias tentdsse domos along with them, let us thankfully 
remain below, being merry and humble. 

I have now onl3" to mention the charming ' ' Cruche Cassee " 
of Greuze, which all the young ladies delight to cop3^ ; and of 
which the color (a thought too blue, perhaps) is marvellously 
graceful and dehcate. There are three more pictures by the 
artist, containing exquisite female heads and color ; but the3^ 
have charms for French critics which are diflEicult to be dis- 
covered b3^ English e3'es ; and the pictures seem weak to me. 
A very fine picture by Bon BoUongue, " Saint Benedict resusci- 
tating a Child," deserves particular attention, and is superb in 
vigor and richness of color. You must look, too, at the large, 
noble, melancholy landscapes of Philippe de Champagne ; and 
the two magnificent Italian pictures of Leopold Robert : the3' 
are, perhaps, the ver3' finest pictures that the French school has 
produced, — as deep as Poussin, of a better color, and of a 
wonderful minuteness and veracit3^ in the representation of 
objects. 

Every one of Lesueur's church-pictures is worth examining 
and admiring; the3^ are full of " unction " and pious mystical 
grace. " Saint Scholastica" is divine ; and the " Taking down 
from the Cross " as noble a composition as ever was seen ; I 
care not by whom the other ma3^ be. There is more beaut3^, 
and less affectation, about this picture than 3'ou will find in the 
performances of many ItaUan masters, with high-sounding 



THE FRENCH SCHOOL OF PAINTING. 57 

names (out with it, and say Raphael at once). I hate those 
simpering Madonnas. I declare that the "Jardiniere" is a 
pukmg, smirking miss, with nothing heavenly about her I 
vow that the " Saint Elizabeth " is a bad picture, — a bad com- 
position, badly drawn, badly colored, in a bad imitation of 
litian — a piece of vile affectation. I say, that when Raphael 
panited this picture two years before his death, the spirit of 
painting had gone from out of him ; he was no lono-er inspired • 
It was time that he should die ! I => i » 

There, — the murder is out ! My paper is filled to the brim, 
and there is no time to speak of Lesueur's " Crucifixion," which 
is odiously colored, to be sure ; but earnest, tender, simple, 
hoij But such things are most difficult to translate into 
words ; — one lays down the pen, and thinks and thinks. The 
figures appear, and take their places one by one: rano-incr 
themselves according to order, in hght or in gloom, the colors 
are reflected duly in the little camera obscura of the brain, and 
the whole picture lies there complete ; but can you describe it? 
r^o, not if pens were fitch-brushes, and words were bladders of 
paint. With which, for the present, adieu. 

Your faithful 

MAT 

To Mr. Robert MacGilp, • -«.. x. 

Newman Street, Londoic. 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 



Simon Gambouge was the son of Solomon Gambouge ; and 
as all the world knows, both father and son were astonishingly 
clever fellows at their profession. Solomon painted land- 
scapes, which nobody bought ; and Simon took a higher line, 
and painted portraits to admiration, only nobod}^ came to sit 
to him. 

As he was not gaining five pounds a year hy his profession, 
and had arrived at the age of twenty, at least, Simon deter- 
mined to better himself by taking a wife, — a plan which a 
number of other wise men adopt, in similar j^ears and circum- 
stances. So Simon prevailed upon a butcher's daughter (to 
whom he owed considerably for cutlets) to quit the meat-shop 
and follow him. Griskinissa — such was the fair creature's 
name — " was as loveh- a bit of mutton," her father said, " as 
ever a man would wish to stick a knife into." She had sat 
to the painter for all sorts of characters ; and the curious who 
possess any of Gambouge's pictures will see her as Venus, 
Minerva, Madonna, and in numberless other characters : Por- 
trait of a lady — Griskinissa ; Sleeping Nymph — Griskinissa, 
without a rag of clothes, lying in a forest ; Maternal Solicitude 
— Griskinissa again, with young Master Gambouge, who was 
by this time the offspring of their affections. 

The lady brought tlie painter a handsome Uttle fortune of 
a couple of hundred pounds ; and as long as this sum lasted 
no woman could be more lovely or loving. But want began 
speedily to attack their little household ; bakers' bills were un- 
paid ; rent was due, and the reckless landlord gave no quarter ; 
and, to crown the whole, her father, unnatural butcher! sud- 
denly stopped the supplies of nmtton-chops ; and swore that 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 59 

his daughter, and the dauber, her husband, should have no more 
of his wares. At first they embr^-ced tenderly, and, kissing and 
crying over their Kttle infant, vowed to heaven that they would 
do without : but in the course of the evening Griskinissa grew 
peckish, and poor Simon pawned his best coat. 

When this habit of pawning is discovered, it appears to the 
poor a kind of Eldorado. Gambouge and his wife were so 
delighted, that they, in the course of a month, made awa}- with 
her gold chain, her great warming-pan, his best crimson plush 
inexpressibles, two wigs, a washhand basin and ewer, fire-irons, 
windovr-curtains, crocker}^, and arm-chairs. Griskinissa said, 
smiling, that she had found a second father in her uncle^ — a 
base pun, which showed that her mind was corrupted, and 
that she was no longer the tender, simple Griskinissa of other 
days. 

I am sorry to say that she had taken to drinking ; she swal- 
lowed the warming-pan in the course of three days, and fuddled 
herself one whole evening with the crimson plush breeches. 

Drinking is the devil — the father, that is to say, of all vices. 
Griskinissa's face and her mind grew ugl}^ together ; her good 
humor changed to bilious, bitter discontent ; her prett}^, fond 
epithets, to foul abuse and swearing ; her tender blue e3'es grew 
watery and blear, and the peach-color on her cheeks fled from 
its old habitation, and crowded up into her nose, where, with 
a number of pimples, it stuck fast. Add to this a dirty, drag- 
gle-tailed chintz ; long, matted hair, wandering into her ej'es, 
and over her lean shoulders, which were once so snow}^ and 
3'oa have the picture of drunkenness and Mrs. Simon Gam- 
bouge. 

Poor Simon, who had been a gay, lively fellow enough in the 
days of his better fortune, was completely cast down by his 
present ill luck, and cowed by the ferocity of his wife. From 
morning till night the neighbors could hear this woman's tongue, 
and understand her doings ; bellows went skimming across the 
room, chairs were flumped down on the floor, and poor Gam- 
bouge's oil and varnish pots went clattering through the win- 
dows, or down the stairs. The baby roared all day; and 
Simon sat pale and idle in a corner, taking a small sup*^ at the 
brand3'-bottle, when Mrs. Gambouge was out of the way. 

One day, as he sat disconsolately at his easel, furbishing up 
a picture of his wife, in the character of Peace, which he had 
commenced a year before, he was more than ordinarily desper- 
ate, and cursed and swore in the most pathetic manner. "O 
miserable fate of genius!" cried he, " was I, a man of such 



60 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

commanding talents, born for this? to be bullied by a fiend«of a 
wife ; to have my masterpieces neglected b}' the world, or sold 
onl}^ for a few pieces? Cursed be the love which has misled 
me ; cursed be the art which is unworthy of me ! Let me dig 
or steal, let me sell m3'self as a soldier, or sell myself to the 
Devil, I should not be more wretched than I am now ! ". 

" Quite the contrar}^" cried a small, cheery voice. 

" What !" exclaimed Gambouge, trembUng and surprised. 
" "Who's there ? — where are 3'ou ? — who are you ? " 

" You were just speaking of me," said the voice. 

Gambouge held, in his left hand, his palette ; in his right, a 
bladder of crimson lake, which he was about to squeeze out 
upon the mahogan}^ " Where are 3^ou?" cried he aga'in. 

" S-q-u-e-e-z-e ! " exclaimed the little voice, 

Gambouge picked out the nail from the bladder, and gave 
a squeeze ; when, as sure as I am living, a little imp spurted 
out from the hole upon the palette, and began laughing in the 
most singular and oily manner. 

When first born lie was little bigger than a tadpole ; then he 
grew to be as big as a mouse ; then he arrived at the size of a 
cat ; and then he jumped oflf the palette, and, turning head over 
heels, asked the poor painter what he wanted with him. 

The strange little animal twisted head over heels, and fixed 
himself at last upon the top of Gambouge's easel, — smearing 
out, with his heels, all the white and vermilion which had just 
been laid on the allegoric portrait of Mrs. Gambouge. 

" What ! " exclaimed Simon, " is it the — " 

" Exactly so ; talk of me, you know, and I am always at 
hand : besides, I am not half so black as I am painted, as 3'ou 
will see when 3'ou know me a little better." 

"Upon my word," said the painter, " it is a ver^^ singular 
surprise which 3'ou have given me. To tell truth, I did not 
even believe in your existence.". 

The little imp put on a theatrical air, and, with one of Mr. 
Macready's best looks, said, — 

" There are more things in heaven and earth, Gambogio, 
Than are dreamed of in your philosophy." 

Gambouge, being a Frenchman, did not understand the 
quotation, but felt somehow strangely and singularly interested 
in the conversation of his new friend. 

Diabolus continued: " You are a man of merit, and want 
money ; you will starve on your merit ; you can only get money 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 61 

from me. Come, my friend, how much is it? I ask the easiest 
interest in the world : old Mordecai, the usurer, has made you 
pa}' twice as heavilj^ before now : nothing but the signature of 
a bond, which is a mere ceremony, and the transfer of an article 
which, in itself, is a supposition — a valueless, windy, uncer- 
tain property of 3^ours, called, by some poet of your own, I 
think, an animula^ vagula^ Uandula — bah! there is no use 
beating about the bush — I mean a soul. Come, let me have 
it ; you know you will sell it some other way, and not get such 
good pay for your bargain ! " — and, having made this speech, 
the Devil pulled out from his fob a sheet as big as a double 
Times, onlj" there was a different stamp in the corner. 

It is useless and tedious to describe law documents : lawj^ers 
only love to read them ; and they have as good in Chitt}" as any 
that are to be found in the Devil's own ; so nobly have the 
apprentices emulated the skill of the master. Suffice it to saj^, 
that poor Gambouge read over the paper, and signed it. He 
was to have all he wished for seven years, and at the end of 

that time was to become the property of the ; Pt0biti£tJ 

that, during the course of the seven 3'ears, ever}' single wish 
which he might form should be gratified by the "^other of the 
contracting parties ; otherwise the deed became null and non- 
avenue, and Gambouge should be left "to go to the his 

own wa}- ." 

"You will never see me again," said Diabolus, in shaking 
hands with poor Simon, on whose fingers he left such a mark 
as is to be seen at this day — " never, at least, unless 3'ou 
want me ; for everything you ask will be performed in the most 
quiet and everj^-day manner : believe me, it is best and most 
gentlemanlike, and avoids anything like scandal. But if you 
set me about anything which is extraordinary, and out of the 
course of nature, as it were, come I must, you know ; and of 
this 3'ou are the best judge." So saying, Diabolus disappeared ; 
but whether up the chimney, through the keyhole, or by any 
other aperture or contrivance, nobod3' knows. Simon Gam- 
bouge was left in a fever of delight, as, heaven forgive me ! 
I beliove man}" a worth3' man would be, if he were allowed an 
opportunity to make a similar bargain. 

" Heigiio ! " said Simon. "I wonder whether this be a 
reality or a dream. — I am sober, I know ; for who will give 
me credit for the means to be drunk? and as for sleeping, I'm 
too hungr3' for that. I wish I could see a capon and a bottle 
of white wine." 

Monsieur Simon ! " cried a voice on the landing-place. 



u 



62 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

" C'est ici," quoth Gambouge, hastening to open the door. 
He did so ; and lo ! there was a restaurateur's hoj at the door, 
supporting a tray, a tin-covered dish, and plates on the same ; 
and, b}^ its side, a tall amber-colored flask of Sauterne. 

"I am the new boj^ sir," exclaimed this j^outh, on entering ; 
" but I believe this is the right door, and j'ou asked for these 
things." 

Simon grinned, and said, "Certainly, I did ask for these 
things." But such was the effect which his interview with the 
demon had had on his innocent mind, that be took them, al- 
though he knew that they were for old Simon, the Jew dandy, 
who was mad after an opera girl, and lived on the floor be- 
neath. 

" Go, my bo3^" he said ; " it is good: call in a couple of 
hours, and remove the plates and glasses." 

The little waiter trotted down stairs, and Simon sat greedily 
down to discuss the capon and the white wine. He bolted the 
legs, he devoured the wings, he cut every morsel of flesh from 
the breast ; — seasoning his repast with pleasant draughts of 
wine, and caring nothing for the inevitable bill, which was to 
follow all. 

" Ye gods ! " said he, as he scraped away at the backbone, 
" what a dinner ! what wine ! — and how gayly served up too ! " 
There were silver forks and spoons, and the remnants of the 
fowl were upon a silver dish. " Why, the money for this dish 
and these spoons," cried Simon, " would keep me and Mrs. G. 
for a month ! I wish " — and here Simon whistled, and turned 
round to see that nobody was peeping — "I wish the plate 
were mine." 

Oh, the horrid progress of the Devil! "Here they are," 
thought Simon to himself; "why should not I take them'?" 
And take them he did. " Detection," said he, " is not so bad 
as starvation ; and I would as soon live at the galleys as live 
with Madame Gambouge." 

So Gambouge shovelled dish and spoons into the flap of his 
surtout, and ran down stairs as if the Devil were behind him — 
as, indeed, he was. 

He immediately made for the house of his old friend the 
pawnbroker — that establishment which is called in France the 
Mont de Piete. " I am obliged to come to 3^ou again, my old 
friend," said Simon, "with some family plate, of which I be- 
seech you to take care." 

The pawnbroker smiled as he examined the goods. " I can 
give you nothing upon them," said he. 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 63 

**What!" cried Simon; "not even the worth of the sil- 
ver?" 

" No ; I could buy them at that price at the ' Cafe Morisot,' 
Rue de la Verrerie, where, I suppose, 3'ou got them a little 
cheaper." And, so sajing, he showed to the guilt-stricken 
Gambouge how the name of that coffee-house was inscribed 
upon ever}^ one of the articles which he had wished to pawn. 

The effects of conscience are dreadful indeed. Oh ! how 
fearful is retribution, how deep is despair, how bitter is remorse 
for crime — when crime is found out ! — otherwise, conscience 
takes matters much more easil}^ Gambouge cursed his fate, 
and swore henceforth to be virtuous. 

"But, hark 3'e, mj^ friend," continued the honest broker, 
"there is no reason why, because I cannot lend upon these 
things, I should not buy them : they will do to melt, if for no 
other purpose. Will 3'ou have half the money? — speak, or I 
peach." 

Simon's resolves about virtue were dissipated instantane- 
ously. "Give me half," he said, "and let me go. — What 
scoundrels are these pawnbrokers ! " ejaculated he, as he passed 
out of the accursed shop, "seeking every wicked pretext to 
rob the poor man of his hard-won gain." 

When he had marched forwards for a street or two, Gam- 
bouge counted the money which he had received, and found 
that he was in possession of no less than a hundred francs. It 
was night, as he reckoned out his equivocal gains, and he 
counted them at the light of a lamp. He looked up at the 
lamp, in doubt as to the course he should next pursue : upon 
it was inscribed the simple number, 152. " A gambling- 
house," thought Gambouge. "I wish I had half the money 
that is now on the table, up stairs." 

He mounted, as many a rogue has done before him, and 
found half a hundred persons busy at a table of y^ouge et noir. 
Gambouge's five napoleons looked insignificant by the side of 
the heaps which were around him ; but the effects of the wine, of 
the theft, and of the detection by the pawnbroker, were upon 
him, and he threw down his capital stoutly upon the 0. 

It is a dangerous spot that 0, or double zero ; but to 
Simon it was more lucky than to the rest of the world. The 
ball went spinning round — in "its predestined circle rolled," 
as Shelley has it, after Goethe — and plumped down at last in 
the double zero. One hundred and thirty-five gold napoleons 
(louis they were then) were counted out to the delighted painter. 
" Oh, Diabolus ! " cried he, " now it is that I begin to beUeve 



64 xdte PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

in thee! Don't talk about merit," he cried; "talk about 
fortune. Tell me not about heroes for the future — tell me 
of zeroes.'' And down went twenty napoleons more upon 
the 0. 

The Devil was certainly in the ball : round it twirled, and 
dropped into zero as naturally as a duck pops its head into a 
pond. Our friend received five hundred pounds for his stake ; 
and tlie croupiers and lookers-on began to stare at him. 

There were twelve thousand pounds on the table. Suffice 
it to say, that Simon won half, and retired from the Palais 
Royal with a thick bundle of bank-notes crammed into his dirty 
three-cornered hat. He had been but half an hour in the place, 
and he had won the revenues of a prince for half a year ! 

Gambouge, as soon as he felt that he was a capitalist, and 
that he had a stake in the country, discovered that he was an 
altered man. He repented of his foul deed, and his base pur- 
loining of the restaurateur's plate. "0 honesty!" he cried, 
' ' how unworthy is an action like this of a man who has a prop- 
erty like mine ! " So he went back to the pawnbroker with the 
gloomiest face imaginable. "My friend," said he, "I have 
sinned against all that I hold most sacred : I have forgotten 
my family and my religion. Here is thy money. In the name 
of heaven, restore me the plate which I have wrongfully sold 
thee ! " 

But the pawnbroker grinned, and said, "Nay, Mr. Gam- 
bouge, I will sell that plate for a thousand francs to you, or I 
never will sell it at all." 

"Well," cried Gambouge, " thou art an inexorable ruffian^ 
Troisboules ; but I will give thee all I am worth." And here 
he produced a billet of five hundred francs. " Look," said he, 
"this money is all I own; it is the pa3^ment of two years' 
lodging. To raise it, I have toiled for many months ; and, 
failing, I have been a criminal. O heaven ! I stole that plate 
that I might pay my debt, and keep my dear wife from wander- 
mg houseless. But I cannot bear this load of ignomiu}^ — I 
cannot suffer the thought of this crime. I will go to the person 
to whom I did wrong, I will starve, I will confess ; but I will, 
I will do right ! " 

The broker was alarmed. "Give me thy note," he cried; 
" here is the plate." 

"Give me an acquittal first," cried Simon, almost broken- 
hearted ; "sign me a paper, and the money is yours." So 
Troisboules wrote according to Gambouge's dictation: "Re- 
ceived, for thirteen ounces of plate, twent}^ pounds." 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 65 

" Monster of iniquity ! " cried the painter, " fiend of wicked- 
ness ! thou art caught in thine own snares. Hast thou not sold 
me five pounds' worth of plate for twenty ? Have I it not in 
my pocket ? Art thou not a convicted dealer in stolen goods ? 
Yield, scoundrel, yield thy money, or I will bring thee to 
justice ! " 

The frightened pawnbroker bullied and battled for a while ; 
but he gave up his mone}^ at last, and the dispute ended. Thus 
it will be seen that Diabolus had rather a hard bargain in the 
wily Gambouge. He had taken a victim prisoner, but he had 
assuredly caught a Tartar. Simon now returned home, and, to 
do him justice, paid the bill for his dinner, and restored the 
plate. 

And now I may add (and the reader should ponder upon 
this, as a profound picture of human life), that Gambouge, 
since he had grown rich, grew likewise abundantly moral. He 
was a most exemplary father. He fed the poor, and was loved 
by them. He scorned a base action. And I have no doubt 
that Mr. Thurtell, or the late lamented Mr. Greenacre, in simi- 
lar circumstances, would have acted like the worthy Simon 
Gambouge. 

There was but one blot upon his character — he hated Mrs. 
Gam. worse than ever. As he grew more benevolent, she grew 
more virulent: when he went to plays, she went to Bible 
societies, and vice versa: in fact, she led him such a life as 
Xantippe led Socrates, or as a dog leads a cat in the same 
kitchen. With all his fortune — for, as may be supposed, 
Simon prospered in all worldly things — he was the most mis- 
erable dog in the whole cit}^ of Paris. Only in the point of 
drinking did he and Mrs. Simon agree ; and for many years, 
and during a considerable number of hours in each day, he 
thus dissipated, partially, his domestic chagrin. O philosophy ! 
we may talk of thee : but, except at the bottom of the wine- 
cup, where thou liest like truth in a well, where shall we find 
thee? 

He lived so long, and in his worldly matters prospered so 
much, there was so little sign of devilment in the accomplish- 
ment of his wishes, and the increase of his prosperity, that 
Simon, at the end of six years, began to doubt whether he had 
made any such bargain at all, as that which we have described 
at the commencement of this history. He had grown, as we 
said, very pious and moral. He went regularly to mass, and 
had a confessor into the bargain. He resolved, therefore, to 



66 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

consult that reverend gentleman, and to lay before him the 
whole matter. 

" I am mclined to think, holy sir," said Gambouge, after 
he had concluded his history, and shown how, in some miracu- 
lous way, all his desires were accomplished, "that, after all, 
this demon was no other than the creation of my own brahi, 
heated by the effects of that bottle of wine, the cause of my 
crime and my prosperit}^" 

The confessor agreed with him, and the}- walked out of 
church comfortably together, and entered afterwards a c«/e, 
where the}^ sat down to refresh themselves after the fatigues of 
their devotion. 

A respectable old gentleman, with a number of orders at 
his buttonhole, presently entered the room, and sauntered up to 
the marble table, before which reposed Simon and his clerical 
friend. " Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, as he took a place 
opposite them, and began reading the papers of the day. 

"Bah ! " said he, at last, — " sont-ils grands ces journaux 
Anglais? Look, sir," he said, handing over an immense sheet 
of The Times to Mr. Gambouge, " was ever anything so mon- 
strous ? " 

Gambouge smiled politely, and examined the proffered 
page. "It is enormous " he said ; "but I do not read Eng- 
lish." 

"Nay," said the man with the orders, "look closer at it, 
Signor Gambouge ; it is astonishing how easy the language is." 

Wondering, Simon took a sheet of paper. He turned pale 
as he looked at it, and began to curse the ices and the waiter. 
"Come, M. I'Abbe," he said; "the heat and glare of this 
place are intolerable." 

The stranger rose with them. " Au plaisir de vous revoir, 
mon cher monsieur," said he ; " I do not mind speaking before 
the Abbe here, who will be my very good friend one of these 
daj'S ; but I thought it necessary to refresh your memory, con- 
cerning our little business transaction six years since ; and could 
not exactly talk of it at churchy as you may fanc3^" 

Simon Gambouge had seen,. in the double-sheeted Times ^ the 
paper signed b}^ himself, which the little Devil had pulled out of 
his fob. 

There was no doubt on the subject ; and Simon, who had but 
a3'earto live, grew more pious, and more careful than ever. 
He had consultations with all the doctors of the Sor]:)onne and 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 67 

all the lawyers of the Palais. But his magnificence grew as 
wearisome to him as his poverty had been before ; and not one 
of the doctors whom he consulted could give him a pennyworth 
of consolation. 

Then he grew outrageous in his demands upon the Devil 
and put him to all sorts of absurd and ridiculous tasks ; but 
they were all punctually performed, until Simon could invent 
no new ones, and the Devil sat all day with his hands in his 
pockets doing nothing. 

One day, Simon's confessor came bounding into the room, 
with the greatest glee. "My friend," said he, " I have it ' 
Eureka!— I have found it. Send the Pope a hundred thou- 
sand crowns, build a new Jesuit college at Rome, give a hun- 
dred gold candlesticks to St. Peter's ; and tell his Holiness 
you will double all, if he will give you absolution ! " 

Gambouge caught at the notion, and hurried off a courier 
to Rome ventre a ferre. His Holiness agreed to the request of 
the petition, and sent him an absolution, written out with his 
own fist, and all in due form. 

" Now," said he, " foul fiend, I defy you 1 arise, Diabolus ' 
your contract is not worth a jot: the Pope has absolved me, 
and I am safe on the road to salvation." In a fervor of orati- 
tude he clasped the hand of his confessor, and embracedliim : 
tears of joy ran down the cheeks of these good men. 

They heard an inordinate roar of laughter, and there 
was Diabolus sitting opposite to them, holding his sides, 
and lashing his tail about, as if he would have gone mad 
with glee. 

"Why," said he, "what nonsense is this! do 3^ou suppose 
I care about that ? " and he tossed the Pope's missive into a 
corner. " M. I'Abbe knows," he said, bowing and grinning, 
" that though the Pope's paper may pass current here, it is not 
worth twopence in our country. What do I care about the 
Pope's absolution? You might just as well be absolved by 
your under butler." 

" Egad," said the Abbe, " the rogue is right — I quite for- 
got the fact, which he points out clearty enough." 

"No, no, Gambouge," continued^ Diabolus, with horrid 
famiUarity. "go thy ways, old fellow, that cock won't fight." 
And he retired up the chimney, chuckling at his wit and his 
triumph. Gambouge heard his tail scuttling all the way up, 
as if he had been a sweeper by profession. 

Simon was left in that condition of grief in which, accord- 
ing to the newspapers, cities and nations are found when a 



68 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

murder is committed, or a lord ill of the gout — a situation, 
we saj^ more eas}'' to imagine than to describe. 

To add to his woes, Mrs. Gambouge, who was now first 
made acquainted with his compact, and its probable conse- 
quences, raised such a storm about his ears, as made him wish 
almost that his seven years were expired. She screamed, she 
scolded, she swore, she wept, she went into such fits of hys- 
terics, that poor Gambouge, who had completely knocked under 
to her, was worn out of his life. He was. allowed no rest, 
night or day : he moped about his fine house, sohtary and 
wretched, and cursed his stars that he ever had married the 
butcher's daughter. 

It wanted six months of the time. 

A sudden and desperate resolution seemed all at once to 
have taken possession of Simon Gambouge. He called his 
family and his friends together — he gave one of the greatest 
feasts that ever was knov^^n in the city of Paris — he gayly pre- 
sided at one end of his table, while Mrs. Gam., splendidly 
arrayed, gave herself airs at the other extremit}^ 

After dinner, using the custom arj- formula, he called upon 
Diabolus to appear. The old ladies screamed, and hoped he 
would not appear naked ; the young ones tittered, and longed 
to see the monster : everybody was pale with expectation and 
affright. 

A very quiet, gentlemanly man, neatly dressed in black, 
made his appearance, to the surprise of all present, and bowed 
all round to the company. " I will not show my credentials^'' 
he said, blushing, and pointing to his hoofs, which were clev- 
erly hidden by his pumps and shoe-buckles, " unless the ladies 
absolutely wish it ; but I am the person you want, Mr. Gam- 
bouge ; pray tell me what is your will." 

"You know," said that gentleman, in a stately and de- 
termined voice, " that you are bound to me, according to our 
agreement, for six months to come." 

" I am," replied the new comer. 

"You are to do all that I ask, whatsoever it may be, or you 
forfeit the bond which I gave you ? " 

"It is true." 

' ' You declare this before the present company ? " 

" Upon my honor, as a gentleman," said Diabolus, bowing, 
and la3'ing his hand upon his waistcoat. 

A whisper of applause ran round the room : all were 
charmed with the bland manners of the fascinating stranger. 

*' My love," continued Gambouge, mildly addressing his 



THE PAINTER'S BARGAIN. 69 

lady, " will you be so polite as to step this way? You know I 
must go soon, and I am anxious, before this noble company, 
to make a provision for one who, in sickness as in health, in 
poverty as in riches, has been my truest and fondest com- 
panion." 

Gambouge mopped his eyes with his handkerchief — all the 
company did likewise. Diabolus sobbed audibly, and Mrs. 
Gambouge sidled up to her husband's side, and took him ten- 
derly by the hand. " Simon I " said she, "is it true? and do 
you reall}' love your Griskinissa? " 

Simon continued solemnly: " Come hither, Diabolus; you 
are bound to obey me in all things for the six months during 
which our contract has to run ; take, then, Griskinissa Gam- 
bouge, live alone with her for half a year, never leave her from 
morning till night, obey all her caprices, follow all her whims, 
and listen to all the abuse which falls from her infernal tongue. 
Do this, and I ask no more of you ; I will deliver myself up at 
the appointed time." 

Not Lord G , when flogged by Lord B , in the 

House,— not Mr. Cartlitch, of Astley's Amphitheatre, in his 
most pathetic passages, could look more crestfallen, and howl 
more hideously, than Diabolus did now. '• Take another year, 
Gambouge," screamed he; "two more — ten more — a cen- 
tury ; roast me on Lawrence's gridiron, boil me in holy water, 
but don't ask that : don't, don't bid me live with Mrs. Gam- 
bouge ! " 

Simon smiled sternly. " I have said it," he cried; "do 
this, or our contract is at an end." 

The Devil, at this, grinned so horribly that every drop of 
beer in the house turned sour : he gnashed his teeth so fright- 
fully that every person in the company wellnigh fainted with 
the choUc. He slapped down the great parchment upon the 
floor, trampled upon it madly, and lashed it with his hoofs and 
his tail : at last, spreading out a mighty pair of wings as wide as 
from here to Regent Street, he slapped Gambouge with his tail 
over one eje, and vanished, abruptly, through the keyhole. 

Gambouge screamed with pain and started up. "You 
drunken, lazy scoundrel ! " cried a shrill and well-known voice, 
' ' 3'ou have been asleep these two hours : " and here he received 
another terrific box on the ear. 

It was too true, he had fallen asleep at his work ; and the 
beautiful vision had been dispelled by the thumps of the tipsy 
Griskinissa. Nothing remained to corroborate his story, ex- 



70 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

cept the bladder of lake, and this was spirted all over his 
waistcoat and breeches. 

" I wish," said the poor fellow, rubbing his tingling cheeks, 
' ' that dreams were true ; " and he went to work again at his 
portrait. 

My last accounts of Gambouge are, that he has left the arts, 
and is footman in a small famil}-. Mrs. Gam. takes in wash- 
ing ; and it is said that her continual dealings with soap-suds 
and hot water have been the only things in life which have kept 
her from spontaneous combustion. 



CAKTOUCHE, 



I HAVE been much interested with an account of the exploits 
of Monsieur Louis Dominic Cartouche, and as Newgate and 
the highways are so much the ftishion with us in England, we 
ma}' be allowed to look abroad for histories of a similar ten- 
dency. It is pleasant to find that virtue is cosmopolite, and 
may exist among wooden-shoed Papists as well as honest 
Church-of-England men. 

Louis Dominic was born in a quarter of Paris called the 
Courtille, says the historian whose work lies before me ; — born 
in the Courtille, and in the year 1693. Another biographer 
asserts that he was born two years later, and in the Marais ; 
— of respectable parents, of course. Think of the talent that 
our two countries produced about this time : Marlborough, 
Villars, Mandrin, Turpin, Boileau, Dryden, Swift, Addison, 
Moliere, Racine, Jack Sheppard, and Louis Cartouche, — all 
famous within the same twenty years, and fighting, writing, 
robbing a Venvi ! 

Well, Marlborough was no chicken when he began to show 
his genius ; Swift was but a dull, idle, college lad ; but if we 
read the histories of some other great men mentioned in the 
above list — I mean the thieves, especially — we shall find that 
they all commenced very early : the}- showed a passion for 
their art, as little Raphael did, or little Mozart ; and the his- 
tory of Cartouche's knaveries begins almost with his breeches. 

Dominic's parents sent him to school at the college of Cler- 
mont (now Louis le Grand) ; and although it has never been 
discovered that the Jesuits, who directed that seminary, ad- 
vanced him much in classical or theological knowledge. Car- 
touche, in revenge, showed, by repeated instances, his own 



72 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

natural bent and genius, which no difficulties were strong 
enough to overcome. His first great action on record, although 
not successful in the end, and tinctured with the innocence of 
youth, is yet highly creditable to him. He made a general 
swoop of a hundred and twenty nightcaps belonging to his 
companions, and disposed of them to his satisfaction ; but as it 
was discovered that of all the youths in the college of Clermont, 
he only was the possessor of a cap to sleep in, suspicion (which, 
alas ! was confirmed) immediately fell upon him : and b^^ this 
little piece of youthful naivete^ a scheme, prettily conceived 
and smartty performed, was rendered naught. 

Cartouche had a wonderful love for good eating, and put all 
the apple- women and cooks, who came to suppl}^ the students, 
under contribution. Not always, however, desirous of robbing 
these, he used to deal with them, occasionally, on honest prin- 
ciples of barter ; that is, whenever he could get hold of his 
schoolfellows' knives, books, rulers, or playthings, which he 
used fairl}' to exchange for tarts and gingerbread. 

It seemed as if the presiding genius of evil was determined 
to patronize this young man ; for before he had been long at 
college, and soon after he had, with the greatest difficulty, 
escaped from the nightcap scrape, an opportunity occurred hy 
which he was enabled to gratify both his propensities at once, 
and not only to steal, but to steal sweetmeats. It happened 
that the principal of the college received some pots of Narbonne 
hone}^, which came under the eyes of Cartouche, and in which 
that 3'oung gentleman, as soon as ever he saw them, determined 
to put his fingers. The president of the college put aside his 
honey-pots in an apartment within his own ; to which, except 
b}' the one door which led into the room which his reverence 
usuall}' occupied, there was no outlet. There was no chimne}'- 
in the room ; and the windows looked into the court, where 
there was a porter at night, and where crowds passed by da}'. 
What was Cartouche to do? — have the honey he must. 

Over this chamber, which contained what his soul longed 
after, and over the president's rooms, there ran a set of unoc- 
cupied garrets, into which the dexterous Cartouche penetrated. 
These were divided from the rooms below, according to the 
fashion of those days, by a set of large beams, which reached 
across the whole building, and across which rude planks were 
laid, which formed the ceiling of the lower story and the floor 
of the upper. Some of these planks did 3'oung Cartouche re- 
move ; and having descended by means of a rope, tied a couple 
of others to the neck of the hone}'-pots, climbed back again, 



CARTOUCHE. 73 

and drew up his prey in safety. He then cunningly fixed the 
planks again in their old places, and retired to gorge himself 
upon his boot}'. And, now, see the punishment of avarice ! 
Everybody knows that the brethren of the order of Jesus are 
bound by a vow to have no more than a certain small sum 
of money in their possession. The principal of the college of 
Clermont had amassed a larger sum, in defiance of this rule : 
and where do you think the old gentleman had hidden it ? In 
the houej'-pots ! As Cartouche dug his spoon into one of them, 
he brought out, besides a quantit}' of golden honey, a couple of 
golden louis, which, with ninety-eight more of their fellows, 
were comfortabl}' hidden in the pots. Little Dominic, who, 
before, had cut rather a poor figure among his fellow-students, 
now appeared in as fine clothes as any of them could boast of; 
and when asked b}^ his parents, on going home, how he came 
by them, said that a 3'oung nobleman of his schoolfellows had 
taken a violent fancy to him, and made him a present of a 
couple of his suits. Cartouche the elder, good man, went to 
thank the young nobleman ; but none such could be found, and 
young Cartouche disdained to give any explanation of his man- 
ner of gaining the mone}- . 

Here, again, we have to regret and remark the inadvertence 
of youth. Cartouche lost a hundred louis — for what ? For a 
pot of honey not worth a couple of shilhngs. Had he fislied 
out the pieces, and replaced the pots and the honey, he might 
have been safe, and a respectable citizen all his life after. The 
principal would not have dared to confess the loss of his money, 
and did not, openly ; but he vowed vengeance against the 
stealer of his sweetmeat, and a rigid search was made. Car- 
touche, as usual, was fixed upon ; and in the tick of his bed, 
lo ! there were found a couple of empt}- honey-pots ! From 
this scrape there is no knowing how he would have escaped, 
had not the president himself been a little anxious to hush the 
matter up ; and accordingly, 3"0ung Cartouche was made to 
disgorge the residue of his ill-gotten gold pieces, old Cartouche 
made up the deficienc}", and his son was allowed to remain un- 
punished — until the next time. 

This, you may fancy, was not very long in coming ; and 
though history has not made us acquainted with the exact crime 
which Louis Dominic next committed, it must have been a 
serious one ; for Cartouche, who had borne philosophically all 
the whippings and punishments which were administered to him 
at college, did not dare to face that one which his indignauL 
father had in pickle for him. As he was coming home from 



74 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

school, on the first day after his crime, when he received per- 
mission to go abroad, one of liis brothers, who was on the 
look-out for him, met him at a short distance from home, and 
told him what was in preparation ; which so frightened this 
young thief, that he declined returning home altogether, and set 
out upon the wide world to shift for himself as he could. 

Undoubted as his genius was, he had not arrived at the full 
exercise of it, and his gains were b}^ no means equal to his ap- 
petite. In whatever professions he tried, — whether he joined 
the gipsies, which he did, — whether he picked pockets on the 
Pont Neuf, which occupation history attributes to him, — poor 
Cartouche was always hungr}^ Hungry and ragged, he wan- 
dered from one place and profession to another, and regretted 
the honey-pots at Clermont, and the comfortable soup and 
bouilli at home. 

Cartouche had an uncle, a kind man, who was a merchant, 
and had dealings at Rouen. One day, walking on the quays 
of that cit}^, this gentleman saw a very miserable, dirty, starv- 
ing lad, who had just made a pounce upon some bones and tur- 
nip-peelings, that had been flung out on the quay, and was 
eating them as greedil}' as if they had been turkeys and truf- 
fles. The worthy man examined the lad a little closer. O 
heavens ! it was their runawa}^ prodigal — it was little Louis 
Dominic ! The merchant was touched by his case ; and for- 
getting the nightcaps, the honey-pots, and the rags and dirt 
of little Louis, took him to his arms, and kissed and hugged 
him with the tenderest affection. Louis kissed and hugged 
too, and blubbered a great deal : he was very repentant, as a 
man often is when he is hungry ; and he went home with his 
uncle, and his peace was made ; and his mother got him new 
clothes, and filled his belly, and for a while Louis was as good 
a son as might be. 

But why attempt to balk the progress of genius ? Louis's 
was not to be kept down. He was sixteen years of age by 
this time — a smart, lively young fellow, and, what is more, 
desperately enamored of a lovely washerwoman. To be suc- 
cessful in your love, as Louis knew, you must have something 
more than mere flames and sentiment ; — a washer, or any 
other woman, cannot live upon sighs only ; but must have 
new gowns and caps, and a necklace every now and then, and 
a few handkerchiefs and silk stockings, and a treat into the 
country or to the play. Now, how are all these things to be 
had without money? Cartouche saw at once that it was im- 
possible ; and as his father would give him none, he was 



CARTOUCHE. 75 

obliged to look for it elsewhere. He took to his old courses, 
and lifted a purse here, and a watch there ; and found, more- 
over, an accommodating gentleman, who took the wares off his 
hands. 

This gentleman introduced him into a very select and agree- 
able socle t}^, in which Cartouche's merit began speedily to be 
recognized ,"^ and in which he learnt how pleasant it is in life to 
have° friends to assist one, and how much may be done by a 
proper division of labor. M. Cartouche, in fact, formed part 
of a regular company or gang of gentlemen, who were asso- 
ciated together for the purpose of making war on the public 
and the law. 

Cartouche had a lovely j'oung sister, who was to be married 
to a rich young gentleman from the provinces. As is the fash- 
ion in France, the parents had arranged the match among 
themselves ; and the young people had never met until just 
before the time appointed for the marriage, when the bride- 
groom came up to Paris with his title-deeds, and settlements, 
and money. Now there can hardly be found in history a finer 
instance of devotion than Cartouche now exhibited. He went 
to his captain, explained the matter to him, and actually, for 
tlie good of his country, as it were (the thieves might be called 
his countr}^), sacrificed his sister's husband's property. Infor- 
mations were taken, the house of the bridegroom was recon- 
noitred, and, one night. Cartouche, in company with some 
chosen friends, made his first visit to the house of his brother- 
in-law. All the people were gone to bed ; and, doubtless, for 
fear of disturbing the porter, Cartouche and his companions 
spared him the trouble of opening the door, by ascending 
quietly at the window. They arrived at the room where the 
bridegroom kept his great chest, and set industriously to work, 
filing and picking the locks which defended the treasure. 

The bridegroom slept in the next room ; but however ten- 
derl}' Cartouche and his workmen handled their tools, from 
fear of disturbing his slumbers, their benevolent design was 
disappointed, for awaken him they did ; and quietly slipping out 
of bed, he came to a place where he had a complete view of all 
that was going on. 'He did not cry out, or frighten himself 
sillily ; but, on the contrary, contented himself with watching 
the countenances of the robbers, so that he might recognize 
them on another occasion ; and, though an avaricious man, 
he did not feel the sUghtest anxiety about his money-chest; 
for the fact is, he had removed aU the cash and papers th^ 
day before. 



76 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

As soon, however, as they had broken all the locks, and 
found the nothing which laj- at the bottom of the chest, he 
shouted with such a loud voice, "Here, Thomas! — John! — 
officer ! — keep tbe gate, fire at the rascals ! " that they, incon- 
tinentl}^ taliing fright, skipped nimbly out of window^ and left 
the house free. 

Cartouche, after this, did not care to meet his brother-in- 
law, but eschewed all those occasions on which the latter was 
to be present at his father's house. The evening before the 
marriage came ; and then his father insisted upon his appear- 
ance among the other relatives of the bride's and bridegroom's 
families, who were all to assemble and make merry. Cartouche 
was obliged to yield ; and brought with him one or two of his 
companions, who had been, by the way, present in the affair 
of the empty money-boxes ; and though he never fancied that 
there was any danger in meeting his brother-in-law, for he had 
no idea that he had been seen on the night of the attack, with 
a natural modesty, which did hi?ii realty credit, he kept out of 
the }'oung bridegroom's sight as much as he could, and showed 
no desire to be presented to him. At supper, however, as he 
was sneaking modestty down to a side-table, his father shouted 
after him, "Ho, Dominic, come hither, and sit opposite to 
your brother-in-law : " which Dominic did, his friends follow- 
ing. The bridegroom pledged him ver}^ gracefully in a bum- 
per ; and was in the act of making him a prett}- speech, on the 
honor of an alliance with such a family, and on the pleasures 
of brother-in-lawship in general, when, looking in his face — 
ye gods ! he saw the ver}^ man who had been filing at his 
monej^-chest a few nights ago ! By his side, too, sat a couple 
more of the gang. The poor fellow turned deadly pale and 
sick, and, setting his glass down, ran quickly out of the room, 
for he thought he was in company of a whole gang of robbers. 
And when he got home, he wrote a letter to the elder Car- , 
touche, humbly declining an}^ connection with his family. 

Cartouche the elder, of course, angrily asked the reason of 
such an abrupt dissolution of the engagement ; and then, much 
to his horror, heard of his eldest son's doings. "You would 
not have me marr}^ into such a family ? " said the ex-bride- 
groom. And old Cartouche, an honest old citizen, confessed, 
with a heavy heart, that he would not. What was he to do 
with the lad ? He did not like to ask for a lettre de cachet^ and 
shut him up in the Bastile. He determined to give him a 
year's discipline at the monastery of St. Lazare. 

But how to catch the young gentleman? Old Cartouche 



CARTOUCHE. 77 

knew that, were he to tell his son of the scheme, the latter 
would never obey, and, therefore, he determined to be very 
cunning. He told Dominic that he was about to make a heavy 
bargain with the fathers, and should require a witness ; so they 
stepped into a carriage together, and drove unsuspectingly to 
the Rue St. Denis. But, when they arrived near the convent, 
Cartouche saw several ominous figures gathering round the 
coach, and felt that his doom was sealed. However, he made 
as if he knew nothing of the conspiracj' ; and the carriage drew 
up, and his father descended, and, bidding him wait for a min- 
ute in the coach, promised to return to him. Cartouche looked 
out ; on the other side of the way half a dozen men were posted, 
evidently with the intention of arresting him. 

Cartouche now performed a great and celebrated stroke of 
genius, which, if he had not been professionally emplo3"ed in 
the morning, he never could have executed. He had in his 
pocket a piece of linen, which he had laid hold of at the door 
of some shop, and from which he quickly tore three suitable 
stripes. One he tied round his head, after the fashion of a 
nightcap ; a second round his waist, like an apron ; and with 
the third he covered his hat, a round one, with a large brim. 
His coat and his periwig he left behind him in the carriage ; 
and when he stepped out from it (which he did without asking 
the coachman to let down the steps) , he bore exactly the ap- 
pearance of a cook's boy carrying a dish ; and with this he 
slipped through the exempts quite unsuspected, and bade adieu 
to the Lazarists and his honest father, who came out speedily 
to seek him, and was not a little annoyed to find only his coat 
and wig. 

With that coat and wig. Cartouche left home, father, friends, 
conscience, remorse, society, behind him. He discovered (like 
a great number of other philosophers and poets, when they 
have committed rascally actions) that the world was all going 
wrong, and he quarrelled with it outright. One of the first 
stories told of the illustrious Cartouche, when he became pro- 
fessionally and openly a robber, redounds highly to his credit, 
and shows that he knew how to take advantage of the occasion, 
and how much he had improved in the course of a very few 
years' experience. His courage and ingenuity were vastly 
admired by his friends ; so much so, that, one day, the captain 
of the band thought fit to compliment him, and vowed that 
when he (the captain) died. Cartouche should infallibly be 
called to the command-in-chief. This conversation, so 'flat- 
tering to Cartouche, was carried on between the two gentlenior?, 



78 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

as they were walking, one night, on the quays by the side of the 
Seine. Cartouche, when the captain made the last remark, 
blushingl}' protested against it, and pleaded his extreme youth 
as a reason wh}^ his comrades could never put entire trust in 
him. " Psha, man!" said the captain, " thy youth is in thy 
favor ; thou wilt live only the longer to lead thy troops to 
victor}'. As for strength, bravery, and cunning, wert thou as 
old as Methuselah, thou couldst not be better provided than 
thou art now, at eighteen.'* What was the reply of Monsieur 
Cartouche? He answered, not b}^ words, but by actions. 
Drawing his knife from his girdle, he instantly dug it into the 
captain's left side, as near his heart as possible ; and then, 
seizing that imprudent commander, precipitated him violently 
into the waters of the Seine, to keep company with the gud- 
geons and river-gods. When he returned to the band, and 
recounted how the captain had basely attempted to assassinate 
him, and how he, on the contrary, had, by exertion of superior 
skill, overcome the captain, not one of the society believed a 
word of his histor}^ ; but they elected him captain forthwith. I 
think his Excellency Don Rafael Maroto, the pacificator of 
Spain, is an amiable character, for whom history has not been 
written in vain. 

Being arrived at this exalted position, there is no end of the 
feats which Cartouche performed ; and his band reached to 
such a pitch of glory, that if there had been a hundred thousand, 
instead of a hundred of them, who knows but that a new and 
popular dynasty might not have been founded, and "Louis 
Dominic, premier Empereur des Fran9ais," might have per- 
formed innumerable glorious actions, and fixed himself in the 
hearts of his people, just as other monarchs have done, a hun- 
dred 3^ears after Cartouche's death. 

A story similar to the above, and equally moral, is that of 
Cartouche, who, in company with two other gentlemen, robbed 
the coche^ or packet-boat, from Melun, where they took a good 
quantity of booty, — making the passengers lie down on the 
decks, and rifling them at leisure. "This money will be but 
very little among three," whispered Cartouche to his neighbor, 
as the three conquerors were making merry over their gains ; 
' ^ if you were but to pull the trigger of 3'our pistol in the neigh- 
borhood of your comrade's ear, perhaps it might go ofi", and 
then there would be but two of us to share." Strangely enough, 
as Cartouche said, the pistol did go off, and No. 3 perished. 
" Give him another ball," said Cartouche ; and another was 
fired into him. But no sooner had Cartouche's comrade dis- 



CARTOUCHE. 79 

charged both his pistols, than Cartouche himself, seized with a 
furious indignation, drew his: '^ Learn, monster," cried he, 
"not to be so greedj^ of gold, and perish, the victim of th}^ 
disloyalty and avarice ! " So Cartouche slew the second robber ; 
and there is no man in Europe who can say that the latter did 
not merit well his punishment. 

I could fill volumes, and not mere sheets of paper, with 
tales of the triumphs of Cartouche and his band ; how he robbed 

the Countess of O , going to Dijon, in her coach, and how 

the Countess fell in love with him, and was faithful to him ever 
after ; how, when the lieutenant of police offered a reward of 
a hundred pistoles to any man who would bring Cartouche before 
him, a noble Marquess, in a coach and six, drove up to the 
hotel of the police ; and the noble Marquess, desiring to see 
Monsieur de la Reynie, on matters of the highest moment, 
alone, the latter introduced him into his private cabinet ; and 
how, when there, the Marquess drew from his pocket a long, 
curiously shaped dagger: "Look at this. Monsieur de la 
Reynie," said he ; " this dagger is poisoned ! " 

" Is it possible? " said M. de la Reynie. 

" A prick of it would do for any man," said the Marquess. 

" You don't say so ! " said M. de la Reynie. 

" I do, though ; and, what is more," says the Marquess, in 
a terrible voice, "if you do not instantly lay 3'ourself flat on 
the ground, with your face towards it, and jour hands crossed 
ovep your back, or if you make the slightest noise or cry, I will 
stick this poisoned dagger between 3'our ribs, as sure as mj- 
name is Cartouche ? " 

At the sound of this dreadful name, M. de la Reynie sunk 
incontinentl}" down on his stomach, and submitted to be care- 
fulty gagged and corded ; after which Monsieur Cartouche laid 
his hands upon all the money which was kept in the lieutenant's 
cabinet. Alas ! and alas ! mau}^ a stout bailiff, and many an 
honest fellow of a spy, went, for that day, without his pay and 
his victuals. 

There is a story that Cartouche once took the diligence to 
Lille, and found in it a certain Abbe Potter, who was full of 
indignation against this monster of a Cartouche, and said that 
when he went back to Paris, which he proposed to do in about 
a fortnight, he should give the lieutenant of police some infor- 
mation, which would infallibh' lead to the scoundrel's capture. 
But poor Potter was disappointed in his designs ; for, before 
he could fulfil them, he was made the victim of Cartouche's 
cruelty. 



80 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

A letter came to the'lieutenant of police, to state that Car- 
touche had travelled to Lille, in company with the Abbe de 
Potter, of that town ; that, on the reverend gentleman's return 
towards Paris, Cartouche had wa3'laid him, murdered him, taken 
his papers, and would come to Paris himself, bearing the name 
and clothes of the unfortunate Abbe, by the Lille coach, on 
such a day. The Lille coach arrived, was surrounded by police 
agents ; the monster Cartouche was there, sure enough, in the 
Abbe's guise. He was seized, bound, flung into prison, brought 
out to be examined, and, on examination, found to be no other 
than the Abbe Potter himself ! It is pleasant to read thus of 
the relaxations of great men, and find them condescending to 
joke like the meanest of us. 

Another diligence adventure is recounted of the famous 
Cartouche. It happened that he met, in the coach, a young 
and lovely lady, clad in widow's weeds, and bound to Paris, 
with a couple of servants. The poor thing was the widow of a 
rich old gentleman of Marseilles, and was going to the capital 
to arrange with her lawyers, and to settle her husband's will. 
The Count de Grinche (for so her fellow-passenger was called) 
was quite as candid as the pretty widow had been, and stated 
that he was a captain in the regiment of Nivernois ; that he 
was going to Paris to buy a colonelc}^, which his relatives, the 
Duke de Bouillon, the Prince de Montmorenc}^, the Comman- 
deur de la Tremoille, with all tlieir interest at court, could not 
fail to procure for him. To be short, in the course of the four 
days' journey, the Count Louis Dominic de G-rinche played his 
cards so well, that the poor little widow half forgot her late 
husband ; and her eyes ghstened with tears as the Count 
kissed her hand at parting — at parting, he hoped, only for a 
few hours. 

Day and night the insinuating Count followed her; and 
when, at the end of a fortnight, and in the midst of a tete-a-tete, 
he plunged, one morning, suddenly on his knees, and said, 
" Leonora, do you love me? " the poor thing heaved the gentlest, 
tenderest, sweetest sigh in the world ; and, sinking her blushing 
head on his shoulder, whispered, "Oh, Dominic, je t'aime ! 
Ah!" said she, " how noble is it of my Dominic to take me 
with the little I have, and he so rich a nobleman ! " The fact 
is, the old Baron's titles and estates had passed away to his 
nephews ; his dowager was only left with three hundred thou- 
sand livres, in reiites sur Vetat — a handsome sum, but nothing 
to compare to the rent-roll of Count Dominic, Count de la 
Grinche, Seigneur de la Haute Pigre, Baron de la Bigorne ; he 



CARTOUCHE. 81 

had estates and wealth which might authorize him to aspire to 
the hand of a duchess, at least. 

The unfortunate widow never for a moment suspected the 
cruel trick that was about to be played on her ; and, at the 
request of her affianced husband, sold out her monej^, and real- 
ized it in gold, to be made over to him on the da}^ when the 
contract was to be signed. The day arrived ; and, according 
to the custom in France, the relations of both parties attended. 
The widow's relatives, though respectable, were not of the first 
nobility, being chiefly persons of the finance or the rohe: there 
was the president of the court of Arras, and his lady ; a farmer- 
general ; a judge of a court of Paris ; and other such grave and 
respectable people. As for Monsieur le Comte de la Grinche, 
he was not bound for names : and, having the whole peerage to 
choose from, brought a host of Montmorencies, Crequis, De la 
Tours, and Guises at his back. His homme d'affaires brought 
his papers in a sack, and displa3'ed the plans of his estates, and 
the titles of his glorious ancesUy. The widow's lawyers had 
her moue}' in sacks ; and between the gold on the one side, 
and the parchments on the other, lay the contract which was to 
make the widow's three hundred thousand francs the property 
of the Count de Grinche. The Count de la Grinche was just 
about to sign ; when the Marshal de Villars, stepping up to 
him, said, "Captain, do 3'ou know who the president of the 
court of Arras, yonder, is? It is old Manasseh, the fence, of 
Brussels. I pawned a gold watch to him, which I stole from 
Cadogan, when I was with Malbrook's army in Flanders." 

Here the Due de la Roche Guy on came forward, very much 
alarmed. " Run me through the body ! " said his Grace, "but 
the comptroller-general's lady, there, is no other than that old 

hag of a Margoton who keeps the " Here the Due de la 

Roche Guyon's voice fell. 

Cartouche smiled graciousl}', and walked up to the table. 
He took up one of the widow's fifteen thousand gold pieces ; — 
it was as pretty a bit of copper as you could wish to see. " My 
dear," said he politely, "there is some mistake here, and this 
business had better stop." 

" Count ! " gasped the poor widow. 

"Count be hanged!" answered the bridegroom, sternly,. 
" my name is Cartouche ! " 



ON SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE 
NOVELS. 

WITH A PLEA FOE ROMANCES IN GENERAL. 



There is an old story of a Spanish court painter, who, being 
pressed for money, and having received a piece of damask, 
which he was to wear in a state procession, pawned the damask, 
and appeared, at the show, dressed out in some ver}^ fine sheets 
of paper, which he had painted so as exactly to resemble silk. 
Nay, his coat looked so much richer than the doublets of all the 
rest, that the Emperor Charles, in whose honor the procession 
was given, remarked the painter, and so his deceit was found 
out. 

I have often thought that, in respect of sham and real his- 
tories, a similar fact may be noticed ; the sham story appearing 
a great deal more agreeable, hfe-like, and natural than the true 
one : and all who, from laziness as well as principle, are inchned 
to follow the easy and comfortable study of novels, may console 
themselves with "the notion that they are studying matters quite 
as important as history, and that their favorite duodecimos are 
as instructive as the biggest quartos in the world. 

If then, ladies, the big- wigs begin to sneer at the course 
of our studies, calling our darling romances foohsh, trivial, 
noxious to the mind, enervators of intellect, fathers of idleness, 
and what not, let us at once take a high ground, and say, — 
Go you to your own employments, and to such dull studies as 
3^ou fancy ; go and bob for triangles, from the Pons Asinorum ; 
go enjoy your dull black draughts of metaphysics; go fumble 
over history books, and dissert upon Herodotus and Livy ; our 
histories are, perhaps, as true as yours ; our drink is the brisk 
sparkling champagne drink, from the presses of Colburn, Bentiey 
and Co.^; our walks are over such sunshiny pleasure-grounds 



SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 83 

as Scott and Shakspeare have laid out for us ; and if our dwell- 
ings are castles in the air, we find them excessively splendid 
and commodious ; — be not you envious because you have no 
wings to fly thither. Let the big- wigs despise us ; such con- 
tempt of their neighbors is the custom of all barbarous tribes ; 
— witness, the learned Chinese : Tippoo Sultaun declared that 
there were not in all Europe ten thousand men : the Sklavonic 
hordes, it is said, so entitled themselves from a word in their 
jargon, which signifies " to speak ; " the ruflSans imagining that 
they had a monopoly of this agreeable faculty, and that all other 
nations were dumb. 

Not so : others may be deaf ; but the novelist has a loud, 
eloquent, instructive language, though his enemies may despise 
or deny it ever so much. What is more, one could, perhaps, 
meet the stoutest historian on his own ground, and argue with 
him ; showing that sham histories were much truer than real 
histories ; which are, in fact, mere contemptible catalogues of 
names and places, that can have no moral eflfect upon the 
reader. 

As thus : — 

Julius Caesar beat Pompey, at Pharsalia. 

The Duke of Marlborough beat Marshal Tallard at Blenheim. 

The Constable of Bourbon beat Francis the First, at Pavia. 

And what have we here? — so many names, simply. Suppose 
Pharsalia had been, at that mysterious period when names were 
given, called Pavia ; and that Julius Csesar's family name had 
been John Churchill ; — the fact would have stood in history, 
thus : — 

" Pompey ran away from the Duke of Marlborough at Pavia/' 

And why not ? — we should have been just as wise. Or it might 
be stated that — 

" The tenth legion charged the French infantry at Blenheim ; and Caesar, 
writing home to his mamma, said, ' Madame, tout est perdu fors I'honneur.' " 

What a contemptible science this is, then, about which quar- 
tos are written, and sixty-volumed Biographies Universelles, 
and Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopaedias, and the like ! the facts aro 
nothing in it, the names everything ; and a gentleman might 
as well improve his mind by learning Walker's "Gazetteer," 
or getting by heart a fifty-years-old edition of the "Court 
Guide." 



84 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Having thus disposed of the historians, let us come to the 
point in question — the novelists. 



On the title-page of these volumes the reader has, doubt- 
less, remarked, that among the pieces introduced, some are 
announced as "copies" and '-compositions." Many of the 
histories have, accordingly, been neatly stolen from the col- 
lections of French authors (and mutilated, according to the old 
sa3^ing, so that their owners should not know them) and, for 
compositions, we intend to favor the pubhc with some studies 
of French modern works, that have not as yet, we believe, 
attracted the notice of the English public. 

Of such works there appear many hundreds yearly, as mav 
be seen by the French catalogues ; but the writer has not sc 
much to do with works political, philosophical, historical, meta- 
phj^sical, scientifical, theological, as with tliose for which he 
has been putting forward a plea — novels, namely; on which 
he has expended a great deal of time and stud}- . And passing 
from novels in general to French novels, let us confess, with 
much humiliation, that we borrow from these stories a great deal 
more knowledge of French society than from our own personal 
observation we ever can hope to gain : for, let a gentleman who 
has dwelt two, four, or ten years in Paris (and has not gone 
thither for the purpose of making a book, when three weeks are 
sufficient — let an English gentleman say, at the end of any 
given period, how much he knows of French society, how many 
French houses he has entered, and how many French friends 
he has made ? — He has enjoyed, at the end of the year, say — ■ 

At the English Ambassador's, so many soirees. 

At houses to which lie has brought letters, so many tea-parties. 

At Cafes, so many dhiners. 

At French private houses, say three dinners, and very lucky too. 

He has, we say, seen an immense number of wax candles, 
cups of tea, glasses of orgeat, and French people, in best 
clothes, enjoying the same ; but intimacy there is none ; we see 
but the outsides of the people. Year by year we live in France, 
and grow gray, and see no more. We play ecarte with Mon- 
sieur de Trefle every night ; but what know we of the heart of 
the man — of the inward ways, thoughts, and customs of Trefle ? 
If we have good legs, and love the amusement, we dance with 
Countess Flicflac, Tuesdays andThursdaj^s, ever since the Peace ; 
and how far are we advanced in acquaintance with her since we 



SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 85 

first twirled her round a room? We know her velvet gown, 
and her diamonds (about three-fourths of them are sham, by 
the wa}') ; we know her smiles, and her simpers, and her rouge 
— but no more : she may turn into a kitchen wench at twelve 
on Thursday night, for aught we know ; her voiture, a pump- 
kin ; and her gens, so many rats : but the real, rougeless, inti7ne 
Fhcflac, we know not. This privilege is granted to no Eng- 
lishman ; we may understand the French language as well as 
Monsieur de Levizac, but never can penetrate into Flicflac's 
confidence : our ways are not her wa3^s ; our manners of think- 
ing, not hers : when we say a good thing, in the course of the 
night, we are wondrous lucky and pleased ; Flicflac will trill you 
off' fifty in ten minutes, and wonder at the betise of the Briton, 
who has never a word to say. We are married, and have four- 
teen children, and would just as soon make love to the Pope of 
Rome as to any one but our own wife. If you do not make 
love to Flicflac, from the day after her marriage to the day she 
reaches sixty, she thinks you a fool. We won't play at ecarte 
with Trefle on Sunday nights ; and are seen walking, about one 
o'clock (accompanied by fourteen red-haired children, with four- 
teen gleaming pra3^er-books) , away from the church. " Grand 
Dieu ! " cries Trefle, "is that man mad? He won't plaj' at 
cards on a Sunday ; he goes to church on a Sunday : he has 
fourteen children ! " 

Was ever Frenchman known to do likewise ? Pass we on 
to our argument, which is, that with our English notions and 
moral and physical constitution, it is quite impossible that we 
should become intimate with our brisk neighbors ; and when 
such authors as Lady Morgan and Mrs. TroUope, having fre- 
quented a certain number of tea-parties in the French capital, 
begin to prattle about French manners and men, — with all 
respect for the talents of those ladies, we do believe their 
information not to be worth a sixpence ; they speak to us not 
of men but of tea-parties. Tea-parties are the same all the 
world over ; with the exception that, with the French, there are 
more lights and prettier dresses ; and with us, a mighty deal 
more tea in the pot. 

There is, however, a cheap and delightful way of travelling, 
that a man may perform in his eas3'-chair, without expense of 
l^assports or post-boys. On the wings of a novel, from the 
next circulating library', he sends his imagination a-gadding, 
and gains acquaintance with people and manners w4iom he 
could not hope otherwise to know. Twopence a volume bears 
us whithersoever we will ; — back to Ivanhoe and Coeur de 



Se THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Lion, or to Waverley and the Young Pretender, along with 
Walter Scott ; up the heights of fashion with the charming en- 
chanters of the silver-fork school ; or, better still, to the snug 
inn-parlor, or the jovial tap-room, with Mr. Pickwick and his 
faithful Sancho Weller. I am sure that a man who, a hundred 
years hence should sit down to write the histor}^ of our time, 
would do wrong to put that great contemporarj' histor}^ of ' ' Pick- 
wick" aside as a frivolous work. It contains true character under 
false names ; and, like " Roderick Random," an inferior work, 
and "Tom Jones" (one that is immeasurabl}^ superior), gives us 
a better idea of the state and ways of the people than one could 
gather from an}^ more pompous or authentic histories. 

We have, therefore, introduced into these volumes one or 
two short reviews of French fiction writers, of particular 
classes, whose Paris sketches may give the reader some notion 
of manners in that capital. If not original, at least the draw- 
ings are accurate ; for, as a Frenchman might have lived a 
thousand years in England, and never could have written 
"Pickwick," an Englishman cannot hope to give a good de- 
scription of the inward thoughts and ways of his neighbors. 

To a person inclined to stud}^ these, in that light and amus- 
ing fashion in which the novelist treats them, let us recommend 
the works of a new writer. Monsieur de Bernard, who has 
painted actual manners, without those monstrous and terrible 
exaggerations in which late French writers have indulged ; and 
who, if he occasionally wounds the English sense of propriety 
(as what French man or woman alive will not?) does so more 
by slighting than b}' outraging it, as, with their labored de- 
scriptions of all sorts of imaginable wickedness, some of his 
brethren of the press have done. M. de Bernard's characters 
are men and women of genteel society — rascals enough, but 
living in no state of convulsive crimes ; and we follow him in 
his livel3% malicious account of their manners, without risk of 
lighting upon an}' such horrors as Balzac or Dumas has pro- 
vided for us. 

Let us give an instance : — it is from the amusing novel 
called " Les Ailes d'lcare," and contains what is to us quite a 
new picture of a French fashionable rogue. The fashions will 
change in a few years, and the rogue, of course, with them. 
Let us catch this dehghtful fellow ere he flies. It is impossible 
to slietch the character in a more sparkling, gentlemanlike way 
than M. de Bernard's ; but such hght things are very diflScult 
of translation, and the sparkle sadly evaporates during the pro- 
cess of decanting. 



SOME FRENCH FASHIOKABLE NOVELS. 87 

A FRENCH FASHIONABLE LETTER. 
" Mr DEAR Victor — It is six in tlie morning : I have iust 
come from the English Ambassador's ball, and army XX 
he day do not admit of my sleeping, I write you a liL' for at 

tt."^tZ"\'1r''^ "' ^ '"'" ""'^ "^« enchantment of a 
fauj night, all other pleasures would be too wearisome to keep 
me awake, except that of conversing with you. Indeed were 

L'!nl rj"T-'° ^'fl" "r' ^^''' '^''"^'^ I fi"^' ^'^ possibility of 
dmng so? Time flies here with such a frightful rapidity, my 
pleasures and my affairs whirl onwards togltber in such a tor^ 

the ZlofkT''' T ' ^™,?'-"l-»-' to -i- occasion bV 
the foi clock ; for each moment has its imperious employ. Do 

rrl irf"' "^^ °^ neg igencc : if my correspondence has not 

fiKr rf,"''"r^' r''"'i' ^ ™"'^^ '■'''" g'^'^ "' Attribute the 
fault solely to the whirlwind in which I live, and which carries 
me hither and thither at its will. 

'; Howevei-, you are not the only person with whom I am 
behindhand : I assure you, on the contrary, that you are one Tf 
a veiy numerous and fashionable oompai^, to whom, towards 
the discharge of my debts, I propose to consecrate foiirlours 
Wl?'n i^"'" l°l ^V^'-e'^-ence to all the world, even to the 
kvelj Duchess of San Severino, a delicious Italian, whom, for 
mj special happiness, I met last summer at the Waters of lix 
I have also a most important negotiation to conclude with one 
of our Princes of Finance: but n'importe, I commence with 
thee: friendship before love or money - friendship before 
eyeiything My despatches concluded, I am engaged to ride 
Cd 'i"!.,'^^''1"'^ ^'1 Gri'""^"'-^' ^"^^ Comte de Casliiais? ao^ 
tte Rocher de Cancale that Grigneure has lost, the appetite 

sado's^'^nt "o " '° r'''' ^""^^'^ '''' '"§W ^' tl^« ^"^bas- 
sadors gala. On my honor, my dear fellow, everybody was of 

a eapncepres,g,eux and a co,nfortabk mirololant. Fancy, for 

boxesTf f "' ? T'l^'^'f "■^' "^""S ^'* ^Wte damaskV t. 
boxes of the shrubs transformed into so many sideboards • 
ights gleaming through the foliage; and, for guLts, the love^ 

in a word 41 "J-'i'l?"'?? •'"'' ^'''*'"» >"^« ^^^P'^ """'t^ls. 
it my esteem "^' ^'^''y ''''""Isomely, and I accord 

f-« '.' ?'"'^ ^ pause, to call for my valet-de-chambre, and call for 

Tn ,'»5 "'^' ?5 '^ '"'''''"'■' '"'"f' I'"^*^ "o time for a headache. 
in serving me, this rascal of a Fr<!deric has broken a cup, true 



88 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Japan, upon ni}^ honor - — the rogue does nothing else. Yester- 
day, for instance, did he not thump me prodigiously, bj'' letting 
fall a goblet, after Cellini, of which the carving alone cost me 
three hundred francs? I must positively put the wretch out 
of doors, to ensure the safety of my furniture ; and in conse- 
quence of this, Eneas, an audacious young negro, in whom 
wisdom hath not waited for 3'ears — Eneas, my groom, I say, 
will probably be elevated to the post of valet-de-chambre. But 
where was I? I think I was speaking to you of an 03'ster 
breakfast, to which, on our return from the Park (du Bois), a 
company of pleasant rakes are invited. After quitting Borel's, 
we propose to adjourn to the Barriere du Combat, where Lord 
Cobham proposes to try some bull-dogs, which he has brought 
over from England — one of these, O'Connell (Lord Cobham is 
a Tory,) has a face in which I place much confidence : I have 
a bet of ten louis with Castijars on the strength of it. After the 
fight, we shall make our accustomed appearance at the ' Cafe 
de Paris,' (the onl}- place, by the way, where a man who re- 
spects himself may be seen,) — and then away with frocks and 
spurs, and on with our dress-coats for the rest of the evening. 
In the first place, I shall go doze for a couple of hours at the 
Opera, where my presence is indispensable ; for Coralie, a 
charming creature, passes this evening from the rank of the 
rats to that of the tigers^ in a pas-de-trois^ and our box patronizes 
her. After the Opera, I must show my face to two or three 
salons in the Faubourg St. Honore ; and having thus performed 
my duties to the world of fashion, I return to the exercise of ni}^ 
rights as a member of the Carnival. At two o'clock all the 
world meets at the Theatre Ventadour : lions and tigers — the 
whole of our menagerie will be present. Evoe ! off we go ! 
roaring and bounding Bacchanal and Saturnal ; 'tis agreed that 
we shall be everything that is low. To conclude, we sup with 
Castijars, the most 'furiously dishevelled' orgy that ever was 
known." 

The rest of the letter is on matters of finance, equally curious 
and instructive. But pause we for the present, to consider the 
fashionable part : and caricature as it is, we have an accurate 
picture of the actual French dand3\ Bets, breakfasts, riding, 
dinners at the " Cafe de Paris," and dehrious Carnival balls: 
the animal goes through all such frantic pleasures at the season 
that precedes Lent. He has a wondrous respect for English 
*' gentlemen-sportsmen ; " he imitates their clubs — their love 
of horse-flesh: he calls his palefrenier a groom, wears blue 



SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 89 

birds' s-eye neck-cloths, sports his pink out hunting, rides 
steeple-chases, and has his Jockey Club. The "tigers and 
lions " alluded to in the report have been borrowed from our 
own country, and a great compliment is it to Monsieur de 
Bernard, the writer of the above amusing sketch, that he has 
such a knowledge of English names and things, as to give a 
Tory lord the decent title of Lord Cobham, and to call his d >g 
O'Conneil. Paul de Kock calls an English nobleman, in one uf 
his last novels. Lord Boulingrog^ and appears vastly delighted at 
the verisimilitude of the title. 

For the " rugissements et hondissements^ hacchanale et saturnah, 
galop infernal^ ronde du sabbat tout le tremblement" these words 
give a most clear, untranslatable idea of the Carnival ball. 
A sight more hideous can hardly strike a man's eye. I wa- 
present at one where the four thousand guests whirled screan^- 
ing, reeling, roaring, out of the ball-room in the Rue St. 
Honore, and tore down to the column in the Place Vendome, 
round which they went shrieking their own music, twenty miles 
an hour, and so tore madly back again. Let a man go alone to 
such a place of amusement, and the sight for him is perfectly 
terrible : the horrid frantic gayety of the place puts him in mind 
more of the merriment of demons than of men : bang, bang, 
drums, trumpets, chairs, pistol-shots, pour out of the orchestra, 
which seems as mad as the dancers ; whiz, a whirlwind of paint 
and patches, all the costumes under the sun, all the ranks in the 
empire, all the he and she scoundrels of the capital, writhed and 
twisted together, rush by you ; if a man falls, woe be to him ; 
two thousand screaming menads go trampling over his carcass : 
they have neither power nor will to stop. 

A set of Malays drunk with bhang and running amuck, a 
company of howling dervishes, may possibly, in our own day, 
go through similar frantic vagaries ; but I doubt if any civilized 
European people but the French would permit and enjoy such 
scenes. Yet our neighbors see little shame in them ; and it is 
very true that men of all classes, high and low, here congregate 
and give themselves up to the disgusting worship of the genius 
of the place. — From the dandy of the Boulevard and the " Cafe 
Anglais," let us turn to the dand}' of ' ' Flicoteau's " and the 
Pays Latin — the Paris student, whose exploits among the 
grisettes are so celebrated, and whose fierce republicanism keeps 
gendarmes for ever on the alert. The following is M. de Ber- 
nard's description of him : — 

"I became acquainted with Dambergeac when we were 



90 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

students at the Ecole de Droit ; we lived in the same Hotel on 
the Place du Pantheon. No doubt, madam, you have occasion- 
all}" met little children dedicated to the Virgin, and, to this end, 
clothed in white raiment from head to foot : m}^ friend, Dam- 
bergeac, had received a different consecration. His father, a 
great patriot of the Revolution, had determined that his son 
should bear into the world a sign of indelible repubhcanism ; 
so, to the great displeasure of his godmother and the parish 
curate, Damb^irgeac ^vas christened b}' the pagan name of Har- 
modius. It was a kind of moral tricolor-cockade, which the 
child was to bear through the vicissitudes of all the revolutions 
to come. Under such influences, my friend's character began 
to develop itself, and, fired b}^ the example of his father, and 
by the warm atmosphere of his native place, Marseilles, he 
grew up to have an independent spirit, and a grand liberality 
of politics, which were at their height when first I made his 
acquaintance. 

" He was then a .young man of eighteen, with a tall, slim 
figure, a broad chest, and a flaming black eye, out of all which 
personal charms he knew how to draw the most advantage ; 
and though his costume was such as Staub might probably have 
criticised, he had, nevertheless, a style peculiar to himself — to 
himself and the students, among whom he was the leader of the 
fashion. A tight black coat, buttoned up to the chin, across 
the chest, set off that part of his person ; a low-crowned hat, 
with a voluminous rim, cast solemn shadows over a countenance 
bronzed b}' a southern sun : he wore, at one time, enormous 
flowing black locks, which he sacrificed pitilessly, however, and 
adopted a Brutus, as being more revolutionary : finally, he 
carried an enormous club, that was his code and digest : in like 
manner, De Retz used to carry a stiletto in his pocket by way 
of a breviary. 

" Although of different ways of thinking in politics, certain 
sj^mpathies of character and conduct united Dambergeac and 
myself, and we speedily became close friends. I don't think, 
in the whole course of his three years' residence, Dambergeac 
ever went through a single course of lectures. For the exami- 
nations, he trusted to luck, and to his owm facility, which was 
prodigious : as for honors, he never aimed at them, but was 
content to do exactly as little as was necessary for him to gain 
his degree. In like manner he sedulously avoided those horri- 
ble circulating libraries, vv'here dail}^ are seen to congregate the 
' reading men' of our schools. But, in revenge, there was not 
a milliner's shop, or a lingerers, in all our quartier Latin, which 



SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 91 

he did not industriously frequent, and of which he was not the 
oracle. Nay, it was said that his victories were not confined 
to the left bank of the Seine ; reports did occasionally come to 
us of fabulous adventures by him accomplished in the far 
regions of the Rue de la Paix and the Boulevard Poissonniere. 
Such recitals were, for us less favored mortals, like tales of 
Bacchus conquering in the East ; they excited our ambition, 
but not our jealousj^ ; for the superiority of Harmodius was 
acknow^ledgecl b}^ us all, and we never thought of a rivalry with 
him. No man ever cantered a hack through the Champs 
Elysees with such elegant assurance ; no man ever made such 
a massacre of dolls at the shooting-gallerj' ; or won you a 
rubber at billiards with more easy grace ; or thundered out a 
couplet out of Beranger with such a roaring melodious bass. 
He was the monarch of the Prado in winter : in summer of 
the Chaumiere and Mont Parnasse. Not a frequenter of those 
fashionable places of entertainment showed a more amiable 
laisser-alier in the dance — that peculiar dance at which gen- 
darmes think proper to blush, and which squeamish societ}- has 
banished from her salons. In a word, Harmodius was the 
prince of maiivais sujets, a youth with all the accomplishments 
of Gottingen and Jena, and all the eminent graces of his own 
country. 

" Besides dissipation and gallantry, our friend had one other 
vast and absorbing occupation — politics, namely; in which he 
was as turbulent and enthusiastic as in pleasure. La Pairie 
was his idol, his heaven, his nightmare ; by da}^ he spouted, 
by night he dreamed, of his countr3\ I have spoken to joi\ of 
his coiffure a la Sjila ; need I mention his pipe, his meerschaum 
pipe, of which General Foy's head was the bowl ; his handker- 
chief with the Charte printed thereon ; and his celebrated tri- 
color braces, which kept the rallying sign of his country ever 
close to his heart? Besides these outward and visible signs of 
sedition, he had inward and secret plans of revolution : he be- 
longed to clubs, frequented associations, read the Constitution- 
nel (Liberals, in -those daj's, swore by the ConstitutionneT)^ 
hai-angued peers and deputies w^ho had deserved well of their 
country ; and if death happened to fall on such, and the Consli- 
tutionnel declared their merit, Harmodius was the ver}' first to 
attend their obsequies, or to set his shoulder to their coffins. 

"Such were his tastes and passions: his antipathies were 
not less lively. He detested three things : a Jesuit, a gen- 
darme, and a claqueur at a theatre. At this period, mission- 
aries were rife about Paris, and endeavored to re-illume the 



92 THE FAKIS SKETCH BOOK. 

zeal of the faitlifiil b}- public preachings in the churches. * In- 
fames jesuites!' would Harmodius exclaim, who, in the excess 
of his toleration, tolerated nothing ; and, at the head of a band 
of philosophers like himself, would attend with scrupulous ex- 
actitude the meetings of the reverend gentlemen. But, instead 
of a contrite heart, Harmodius only brought the abomination 
of desolation into their sanctuary. A perpetual fire of fulmi- 
nating balls would bang from under the feet of the faithful ; 
odors of inapure assafcetida would mingle with the fumes of the 
incense ; and wicked drinking choruses would rise up along 
with the holy canticles, in hideous dissonance, reminding one 
of the old orgies under the reign of the Abbot of Unreason. 

"His hatred of the gendarmes was equally ferocious : and 
as for the claqueurs, woe be to them when Harmodius was in 
the pit! They knew him, and trembled before him, like the 
earth before Alexander ; and his famous war-cry, ' La Carte au 
chapeau ! ' was so much dreaded, that the ' entrepreneurs de 
sHcces dramatiques ' demanded twice as much to do the Odeon 
Theatre (which we students and Harmodius frequented), as to 
applaud at an}^ other place of amusement : and, indeed, their 
double pa}^ was hardly gained ; Harmodius taking care that 
they should earn the most of it under the benches." 

This passage, with which we have taken some liberties, will 
give the reader a more liveh' idea of the reckless, jovial, turbu- 
lent Paris student, than any with which a foreigner could fur- 
nish him : the grisette is his heroine ; and dear old Beranger, 
the cynic-epicurean, has celebrated him and her in the most de- 
lightful verses in the world. Of these we ma}^ have occasion 
to sa}^ a word or two anon. Meanwhile let us follow Monsieur 
de Bernard in his amusing descriptions of his countrymen some- 
what farther ; and, having seen how Dambergeac was a fero- 
cious republican, being a bachelor, let us see how age, sense, 
and a little government pa}' — the great agent of conversions in 
France — nay, in England — has reduced him to be a pompous, 
quiet, lo3'al supporter of the juste milieu : his former portrait 
was that of the student, the present will stand for an admirable 
lively likeness of 

THE SOUS-PREFET. 

" Saying that I would wait for Dambergeac in his own 
study, I was introduced into that apartment, and saw around 
me the usual furniture of a man in his station. There was, 
in the middle of the room, a large bureau, surrounded by 



SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 93 

orthodox arm-chairs ; and there were many shelves with boxes 
duly ticketed ; there were a number of maps, and among them 
a great one of the department over which Dambergeac ruled ; 
and facing the windows, on a wooden pedestal, stood a plas- 
ter-cast of the ^Roi des Frangais.' Recollecting my friend's 
former republicanism, I smiled at this piece of furniture ; but 
before I had time to carry my observations any farther, a 
hea^T rolling sound of carriage-wheels, that caused the win- 
dows to rattle and seemed to shake the whole edifice of the 
sub-prefecture, called my attention to the court without. Its 
iron gates were flung open, and in rolled, with a great deal 
of din, a chariot escorted by a brace of gendarmes, sword 
in hand. A tall gentleman, with a cocked-hat and feathers, 
wearing a blue and silver uniform coat, descended from the 
vehicle ; and having, with much grave condescension, saluted 
his escort, mounted the stair. A moment afterwards the door 
of the study was opened, and I embraced my friend. 

" After the first warmth and salutations, we began to ex- 
amine each other with an equal curiosity, for eight j'ears had 
elapsed since we had last met. 

"'You are grown very thin and pale,' said Harmodius, 
after a moment. 

" 'In revenge I find you fat and ros}^ : if I am a walking- 
satire on celibacy, — you, at least, are a living paneg3'ric on 
marriage.' 

"In fact a great change, and such an one as man}^ peo- 
ple would call a change for the better, had taken place in my 
friend : he had grown fat, and announced a decided disposi- 
tion to become what French people call a helhomme: that is, 
a ver}^ fat one. His complexion, bronzed before, was now 
clear white and red : there were no more political allusions in 
his hair, which was, on the contrar}-, neatly frizzed, and 
brushed over the forehead, shell-shape. This head-dress, 
joined to a thin pair of whiskers, cut crescent- wise from the 
ear to the nose, gave my friend a regular bourgeois phj'siog- 
nomy, wax-doll-like : he looked a great deal too well ; and, 
added to this, the solemnity of his prefectural costume, gave 
his whole appearance a pompous well-fed look that by no 
means pleased. 

"'I surprise j^ou,' said I, 'in the midst of your splendor: 
do 3'Ou know that this costume and yonder attendants have 
a look excessively awful and splendid? You entered your 
palace just now with the air of a pasha.' 

*' ' You see me in uniform in honor of Monseigneur the 



94 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Bishop, who has just made his diocesan visit, and whom I have 
just conducted to the Umit of the arrondissemetit.' 

"'What!' said I, '3"0u have gendarmes for guards, and 
dance attendance on bishops? There are no more janissaries 
and Jesuits, I suppose? ' The sub-prefect smiled. 

" ' 1 assure 3'ou that mj gendarmes are ver}^ worthy fellows ; 
and that among the gentlemen who compose our clergy there 
are some of the ver^^ best rank and talent : besides, my wife is 
niece to one of the vicars-general.' 

' ' ' What have you done with that great Tasso beard that 
poor Armandine used to love sO ? ' 

" ' My wife does not like a beard ; and j^ou know that what 
is permitted to a student is not ver}^ becoming to a magistrate.' 

" I began to laugh. ' Harmodius and a magistrate ! — how 
shall I ever couple the two words together? But tell me, in 
3^our correspondences, j^our audiences, 3^our sittings with vil- 
lage mayors and petty councils, how do j^ou manage to remain 
awake ? ' 

" ' In the commencement,' said Harmodius, gravel}', ' it was 
very difficult ; and, in order to keep m}' eyes open, I used to 
stick pins into my legs : now, however, I am used to it ; and 
I'm sure I don't take more than fift}^ pinches of snuff at a sit- 
ting.' 

"'Ah! apropos of snuff: you are near Spain here, and 
were always a famous smoker. Give me a cigar, — it will 
take away the musty odor of these piles of papers.' 

"'Impossible, ni}^ dear; I don't smoke; ni}^ wife cannot 
bear a cigar.' 

' ' His wife ! thought I ; always his wife : and I remember 
Juliette, who really grew sick at the smell of a pipe, and Har- 
modius would smoke, until, at last, the poor thing grew to smoke 
herself, like a trooper. To compensate, however, as much as 
possible for the loss of my cigar, Dambergeac drew from his 
pocket an enormous gold snuff-box, on which figured the self- 
same head that I had before remarked in plaster, but this time 
surrounded with a ring of pretty princes and princesses, all 
nicely painted in miniature. As for the statue of Louis Phi- 
lippe, that, in the cabinet of an official, is a thing of course ; 
but the snuff-box seemed to indicate a degree of sentimental 
and personal devotion, such as the old Royalists were onlj^ sup- 
posed to be guilt}' of. 

" ' What ! you are turned decided juste milieu?' said I; 

" ' I am a sous-prefet,' answered Harmodius. 

" I had nothing to say, but held my tongue, wondering, not 



SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 95 

at the change which had taken place in the habits, manners, 
and opinions of my friend, but at my own folly, which led me 
to fancy that I should find the student of '26 in the functionary 
of '34. At this moment a domestic appeared. 

"'Madame is waiting for Monsieur,' said he: 'the last 
bell has gone, and mass beginning.' 

" ' Mass ! ' said I, bounding up from my chair. ' You at 
mass like a decent serious Christian, without crackers in your 
pocket, and bored keys to whistle through ? ' — The sous-prefet 
rose, his countenance was calm, and an indulgent smile played 
upon his lips, as he said, ' My arrondissement is very devout ; 
and not to interfere with the belief of the population is the 
maxim of every wise politician : I have precise orders from 
Government on the point, too, and go to eleven o'clock mass 
ever}^ Sunday.' " 

There is a great deal of curious matter for speculation in 
the accounts here so wittily given by M. de Bernard : but, per- 
haps, it is still more curious to think of what he has not written, 
and to judge of his characters, not so much by the words in 
which he describes them, as by the unconscious testimony that 
the words all together convey. In the first place, our author 
describes a swindler imitating the manners of a dandy ; and 
many swindlers and dandies be there, doubtless, in London 
as well as in Paris. But there is about the present swindler, 
and about Monsieur Dambergeac the student, and Monsieur 
Dambergeac the sous-prefet, and his friend, a rich store of calm 
internal debauch, which does not, let us hope and pray, exist 
in England. Hearken to M. de Gustan, and his smirking 
whispers, about the Duchess of San Severino, who pour son 
honheiir particulier, &c. &c. Listen to Monsieur Dambergeac's 
friend's remonstrances concerning pauvre Juliette who grew sick 
at the smell of a pipe ; to his naive admiration at the fact that 
the sous-prefet goes to church: and we may set down, as 
axioms, that rehgion is so uncommon among the Parisians, 
as to awaken the surprise of all candid observers ; that gallan- 
try is so common as to create no remark, and to be considered 
as a matter of course. With us, at least, the converse of the 
proposition prevails : it is the man professing m-eligion who 
would be remarked and reprehended in England ; and, if the 
second-named vice exists, at any rate, it adopts the decencv of 
secrecy and is not made patent and notorious to all the woVld. 
A French gentleman thinks no more of proclaiming that he 
has a mistress than that he has a tailor ; and one lives the time 



96 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

of Boccaccio over again, in the thousand and one French novels 
which depict society in that country. 

For instance, here are before us a few specimens (do not, 
madam, be alarmed, you can skip the sentence if you like,) 
to be found in as many admirable witty tales, by the before- 
lauded Monsieur de Bernard. He is more remarkable than any 
other French author, to our notion, for writing Uke a gentle- 
man : there is ease, grace and ton, in his style, which, if we 
judge aright, cannot be discovered in Balzac, or Soulie, or 
Dumas. We have then — " Gerfaut," a novel : a lovel}^ crea- 
ture is married to a brave, haught}', Alsacian nobleman, who 
allows her to spend her winters at Paris, he remaining on his 
terres, cultivating, carousing, and hunting the boar. The lovely 
creature meets the fascinating Gerfaut at Paris ; instantly the 
latter makes love to her ; a duel takes place : baron killed ; 
wife throws herself out of window ; Gerfaut plunges into dis- 
sipation ; and so the tale ends. 

Next: " La Femme de Quarante Ans," a capital tale, full 
of exquisite fun and sparkling satire : La femme de quarante 
ans has a husband and thr^ee lovers ; all of whom find out their 
mutual connection one starrj^ night ; for the lady of forty is 
of a romantic poetical turn, and has given her three admirers 
a star apiece; saying to one and the other, " Alphonse, when 
3^on pale orb rises in heaven, think of me;" " Isadore, when 
that bright planet sparkles in the sky, remember your Caro- 
line," &c. 

" Un Acte de Vertu," from which we have taken Damber- 
geac's historj', contains him, the husband — a wife — and a 
brace of lovers ; and a great deal of fun takes place in the 
manner in which one lover supplants the other. — Pretty morals 
truly ! 

If we examine an author who rejoices in the aristocratic 
name of le Comte Horace de Yiel-Castel, we find, though with 
infinitely less wit, exactly the same intrigues going on. A 
noble Count lives in the Faubourg St. Honore, and has a noble 
Duchess for a mistress : he introduces her Grace to the Coun- 
tess his wife. The Countess his wife, in order to ramener her 
lord to his conjugal duties, is counselled, by a friend, to pretend 
to take a lover : one is found, who, poor fellow ! takes the aflTair 
in earnest : climax — duel, death, despair, and what not? In 
the "Faubourg St. Germain," another novel by the same, 
writer, which professes to describe the ver}^ pink of that societ}' 
which Napoleon dreaded more than Russia, Prussia, and Aus- 
tria, there is an old husband, of course ; a sentimental young 



SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 97 

German nobleman, who falls in love with his wife ; and the 
moral of the piece lies in the showing up of the conduct of the 
lad)^ who is reprehended — not for deceiving her husband 
(poor devil !) — but for being a flirt, and taking a second lover ^ 
to the utter despair, confusion, and annihilation of the first. 

AYhy, 3^e gods, do Frenchmen marry at all? Had Pere En- 
fantin (who, it is said, has shaved his ambrosial beard, and 
is now a clerk in a banking-house) been allowed to carr}' out 
his chaste, just, dignified social scheme, what a deal of marital 
discomfort might have been avoided : — would it not be advis- 
able that a great reformer and lawgiver of our own, Mr. Robert 
Owen, should be presented at the Tuileries, and there propound 
his scheme for the regeneration of France ? 

He might, perhaps, be spared, for our country is not 3'et 
suflSciently advanced to give such a philosopher fair pla3^ In 
London, as yet, there are no blessed Bureaux de Manage^ 
where an old bachelor ma}^ have a charming young maiden — 
for his money ; or a widow of seventy ma}^ buy a gay 3^oung 
fellow of twenty, for a certain number of bank-billets. If 
manages de convenance take place here (as the}' will wherever 
avarice, and povert}^ and desire, and 3'earning after riches 
are to be found), at least, thank God, such unions are not- 
arranged upon a regular organized system : there is a fictioH 
of attachment with us, and there is a consolation in the deceit 
("the homage," according to the old mot of Rochefoucauld; 
' ' which vice pa3^s to virtue " ; for the ver3' falsehood show? 
that the virtue exists somewhere. We once heard a furiou? 
old French colonel inveighing against the chastit3' of Englisb 
demoiselles: "Figurez-vous, sir," said he (he had been a pris- 
oner in England), "that these women come down to dinnet 
in low dresses, and walk out alone with the men ! " — and, 
pra3' heaven, so ma3^ the3' walk, fancy-free in all sorts of 
maiden meditations, and suflTer no more molestation than that 
3'oung lady of whom Moore sings, and who (there must have 
been a famous lord-Heutenant in those da3's) walked through 
all Ireland, with rich and rare gems, beautv, and a gold ring 
on her stick, without meeting or thinking of harm. 

Now, whether Monsieur de Viel-Castel has given a true picture 
of the Faubourg St. Germain, it is impossible for most foreign- 
ers to say ; but some of his descriptions will not fail to astonish 
the English reader ; and all are filled with that remarkable naif 
contempt of the institution called marriage, which we have 
seen in M. de Bernard. The romantic young nobleman of 
Westphalia arrives at Paris, and is admitted into what a cele- 



98 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

brated female author calls la creme de la creme de la haute voUe 
of Parisian society. He is a j^outh of about twenty years of 
age. "No passion had as yet come to move his heart, and 
give hfe to his faculties ; he was awaiting and fearing the mo- 
ment of love ; calling for it, and yet trembhng at its approach ; 
feehng in the depths of his soul, that that moment would 
create a mighty change in his being, and decide, perhaps, by 
its influence, the whole of his future life." 

Is it not remarkable, that a young nobleman, with these 
ideas, should not pitch upon a demoiselle^ or a widow, at least? 
but no, the rogue must have a married woman, bad luck to 
him ; and what his fate is to be, is thus recounted by our 
author, in the shape of 

A FRENCH FASHIONABLE CONVERSATION. 

" A lady, with a great deal of esprit^ to whom forty years' 
experience of the great world had given a prodigious perspi- 
cacitj' of judgment, the Duchess of Chalux, arbitress of the 
opinion to be held on all new comers to the Faubourg Saint 
Germain, and of their destiny and reception in it ; — one of 
those women, in a w^ord, who make or ruin a man, — said, in 
speaking of Gerard de Stolberg, whom she received at her own 
house, and met everywhere, ' This 3'oung German will never 
gain for himself the title of an exquisite, or a man of bonnes 
fortunes, among us. In spite of his calm and politeness, I 
think I can see in his character some rude and insurmountable 
difficulties, which time will only increase, and which will pre- 
vent him for ever from bending to the exigencies of either pro- 
fession ; but, unless I very much deceive myself, he will, one 
day, be the hero of a veritable romance.' 

"'He, madame?' answered a young man, of fair com- 
plexion and fair hair, one of the most devoted slaves of the 
fashion: — 'He, Madame la Duchesse? why, the man is, at 
best, but an original, fished out of the Rhine : a dull, heavy 
creature, as much capable of understanding a woman's heart as 
I am of speaking bas-Breton.' 

" 'Well, Monsieur de Belport, 3^ou will speak bas-Breton. 
Monsieur de Stolberg has not your admirable ease of manner, 
nor your facilit}^ of telling pretty nothings, nor your — in a 
word, that particular something which makes 3'ou the most 
recherche man of the Faubourg Saint Germain ; and even I 
avow to you that, were I still 3'Oung, and a coquette, and that 
I took it into my head to have a lover, I would prefer you' 



SOME FKENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 99 

" All this was said by the Duchess, with a certain air of 
raillery and such a mixtui'e of earnest and malice, that Monsieur 
de Belport, piqued not a little, could not help sajang, as he 
bowed profoundly before the Duchess's chair, ' And might I, 
madam, be permitted to ask the reason of this preference?' 

" ' mon Dieu, oui,' said the Duchess, always in the same 
tone ; ' because a lover like you would never think of carrying 
his attachment to the height of passion ; and these passions, do 
you know, have frightened me all my life. One cannot retreat 
at will from the grasp of a passionate lover ; one leaves behind 
one some fragment of one's moral self^ or the best part of 
one's physical life. A passion, if it does not kill you, adds 
cruelly to your 3^ears ; in a word, it is the very lowest possible 
taste. And now you understand why I should prefer you, 
M. de Belport — you who are reputed to be the leader of the 
fashion.' 

" ' Perfectl}' ,' murmured the gentleman, piqued more and 
more. 

"'Gerard de Stolberg ivill be passionate. I don't know 
what woman will please him, or will be pleased b}^ him ' (here 
the Duchess of Chalux spoke more gravel}') ; ■ ' but his love will 
be no play, I repeat it to 3'ou once more. All this astonishes 
you, because you, great leaders of the ton that you are, never 
fancy that a hero of romance should be found among your 
number. Gerard de Stolberg — but, look, here he comes ! ' 

" M. de Belport rose, and quitted the Duchess, without 
believing in her prophecy ; but he could not avoid smiling as 
he passed near the hero of romance. 

"It was because M. de Stolberg had never, in all his 
life, been a hero of romance, or even an apprentice-hero of 
romance. 

" Gerard de Stolberg was not, as yet, initiated into the 
thousand secrets in the chronicle of the great world : he knew 
but superficial!}' the society in which he lived ; and, therefore, 
he devoted his evening to the gathering of all the information 
which he could acquire from the indiscreet conversations of the 
people about him. His whole man became ear and memory ; 
so much was Stolberg convinced of the necessit}^ of becoming a 
diligent student in this new school, where was taught the art of 
knowing and advancing in the great world. In the recess of a 
window he learned more on this one night than months of in- 
vestigation would have taught him. The talk of a ball is more 
indiscreet than the confidential chatter of a company of idle 



100 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

women. No man present at a ball, whether listener or speaker, 
thinks he has a right to affect an}' indulgence for his com- 
panions, and the most learned in malice will always pass for 
the most witt}'. 

' ' ' How ! ' said the Viscount de Mondrage : ' the Duchess 
of Rivesalte arrives alone to-night, without her inevitable 
Dormilly ! ' — And the Viscount, as he spoke, pointed towards 
a tall and slender young woman, who, gliding rather than 
walking, met the ladies bj' whom she passed, with a graceful 
and modest salute, and replied to the looks of the men hy bril- 
liant veiled glances full of coquetry and attack. 

' ' ' Parbleu ! ' said an elegant personage standing near the 
Viscount de Mondrage, ' don't you see Dormilly ranged behind 
the Duchess, in qualit}' of train-bearer, and hiding, under his 
long locks and his great screen of moustaches, the blushing con- 
sciousness of his good luck? — They call him the fourth chapter 
of the Duchess's memoirs. The little Marquise d'Alberas is 
ready to die out of spite ; but the best of the joke is, that she 
has only taken poor de Vendre for a lover in order to vent her 
spleen on him. Look at him against the chimney yonder ; if 
the Marchioness do not break at once with him by quitting him 
for somebody else, the poor fellow will turn an idiot.' 

" ' Is he jealous ? ' asked a young man, looking as if he did not 
know what jealousy was and as if he had no time to be jealous. 

" ' Jealous ! the very incarnation of jealousy ; the second edi- 
tion, revised, corrected, and considerably enlarged; as jealous 
as poor Gressigny, who is dying of it.' 

"'What! Gressigny too? why, 'tis growing quite into 
fashion : egad ! / must try and be jealous,' said Monsieur de 
Beauval. ' But see ! here comes the delicious Duchess of Belle- 
fiore,'" &c. &c. &c.* 

Enough, enough : this kind of fashionable Parisian conversa- 
tion, which is, says our author, " a prodigious labor of impro- 
vising," a " chef-d'oeuvre," a " strange and singular thing, in 
which monotony is unknown," seems to be, if correctly reported, 
a ' ' strange and singular thing " indeed ; but somewhat monot- 
onous at least to an English reader, and " prodigious " only, if 
we ma}' take leave to say so, for the wonderful rascality which 
all the conversationists betra}^ Miss Neverout and the Colo- 
nel, in Swift's famous dialogue, are a thousand times more 
entertaining and moral ; and, besides, we can laugh at those 
worthies as well as with them ; whereas the ' ' prodigious " 
French wits are to us quite incomprehensible. Fanc}' a duchess 



SOME FRENCH FASHIONABLE NOVELS. 101 

as old as Lad}' herself, and who should begin to tell us " of 

what she would do if ever she had a niiud to take a lover ; " and 
another duchess, with a fourth lover, tripping modestly among 
the ladies, and returning the gaze of the men by veiled glances, 
full of coquetry and attack ! — Parbleu, if Monsieur de Viel- 
Castel should find Iiimself among a society of French duchesses, 
and they should tear his ej'es out, and send the fashionable 
Orpheus floating by the Seine, his slaughter might almost b© 
considered as justifiable Gounticide. 



A GAMBLER'S DEATH. 



Anybody who was at C school some twelve 3- ears since, 

must recollect Jack Attwood : he was the most clashing lad in 



'fc> 



the place, with more money in his pocket than belonged to the 
whole fifth form in which we were companions. 

When he was about fifteen, Jack suddenly retreated from 

C , and presentl}" we heard that he had a commission in a 

cavahy regiment, and was to have a great fortune from his 
father, when that old gentleman should die. Jack himself came 
to confirm these stories a few months after, and paid a visit to 
his old school chums. He had laid aside his little school-jacket 
and inky corduroys, and now appeared in such a splendid mili- 
tar}' suit as won the respect of all of us. His hair was dripping 
with oil, his hands were covered with rings, he had a dusky 
down over his upper lip which looked not unlike a moustache, 
and a multiplicity of frogs and braiding on his surtout which 
v/ould have sufficed to lace a field-marshal. When old Swish- 
tail, the usher, passed in his seed}' black coat and gaiters. Jack 
gave him such a look of contempt as set us all a-laughing : in 
fact it was his turn to laugh now ; for he used to roar very 
stoutly some months before, when Swishtail was in the custom 
of belaboring him with his great cane. 

Jack's talk was all about the regiment and the fine fellows in 
it : how he had ridden a steeple-chase with Captain Boldero, 
and licked him at the last hedge ; and how he had very nearly 
fought a duel with Sir George Grig, about dancing with Lad}' 
Mar}^ Slamken at a ball. " I soon made the baronet know 
what it was to deal with a man of the n — th," said Jack. 
" Dammee, sir, when I lugged out my barkers, and talked of 
fighting across the mess-room table, Grig turned as pale as a 
sheet, or as — " 



A GAMBLER'S DEATH. 103 

'* Or as you used to do, Attwood, when Swishtail hauled you 
up," piped out little Hicks, the foundation-boy. 

It was beneath Jack's dignity to thrash anybody, now, but a 
grown-up baronet ; so he let off little Hicks, and passed over 
the general titter which was raised at his expense. However, 
he entertained us with his histories about lords and ladies, and 
so-and-so " of ours," until we thought him one of the greatest 
men in his Majesty's service, and until the school-bell rung ; 
when, with a heavy heart, we got our books together, and 
marched in to be whacked by old Swishtail. I promise 3'ou he 
revenged hhnself on us for Jack's contempt of him. I got that 
day at least twenty cuts to my share, which ought to have be- 
longed to Cornet Attwood, of the u — th dragoons. 

When we came to think more coolly over our quondam 
schoolfellow's swaggering talk and manner, we were not quite 
so impressed b}' his merits as at his first appearance among us. 
We recollected how he used, in former times, to tell us great 
stories, which were so monstrousl}^ improbable that the smallest 
boy in the school would scout them ; how often we caught him 
tripping in facts, and how unblushingly he admitted his little 
errors in the score of veracity. He and I, though never great 
friends, had been close companions : I was Jack's form-fellow 
(we fought with amazing emulation for the last place in the 
class) ; but still I was rather hurt at the coolness of my old 
comrade, who had forgotten all our former intimacy, in his 
steeple-chases with Captain Boldero and his duel with Su* 
George Grig. 

Nothing more was heard of Attwood for some years ; a tailor 

one da}' came down to C , who had made clothes for Jack 

in his school-days, and furnished him with regimentals : he pro- 
duced a long bill for one hundred and twenty pounds and up- 
wards, and asked where news might be had of his customer. 
Jack was in India, with his regiment, shooting tigers and jack- 
als, no doubt. Occasionally, from that distant countrj^ some 
magnificent rumor would reach us of his proceedings. Once I 
)lieard that he had been called to a court-martial for unbecoming 
conduct ; another time, that he kept twenty horses, and won the 
gold plate at the Calcutta races. Present^, however, as the 
recollections of the fifth form wore away. Jack's image dis- 
appeared likewise, and I ceased to ask or think about my 
coUege chum. 

A year since, as I was smoking my cigar in the " Estaminet 
du Grand Balcon," an excellent smoking-shop, where the to- 
bacco is unexceptionable, and the Hollands of singular merit, n 



104 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

dark-looking, thick-set man, in a greasy well-cut coat, with a 
shabby hat, cocked on one side of his dirty face, took the place 
opposite me, at the little marble table, and called for brand3\ I 
did not much admire the impudence or the appearance of my 
friend, nor the fixed stare with which he chose to examine me. 
At last, he thrust a great greasy hand across the table, and 
said, " Titmarsh, do you forget 3'our old friend Attwood?" 

I confess my recognition of him was not so joyful as on the 
day ten 3'ears earlier, when he had come, bedizened with lace 

and gold rings, to see us at C school : a man in the tenth 

part of a century learns a deal of worldty wisdom, and his hand, 
which goes naturall^^ forward to seize the gloved finger of a 
millionnaire, or a milor, draws instinctively back from a dirty 
fist, encompassed by a ragged wristband and a tattered cuflT. 
But Attwood was in nowise so backward ; and the iron squeeze 
with which he shook my passive paw, proved that he was either 
ver}- affectionate or very poor. You, ni}- dear sir, who are 
reading this history, know very well the great art of shaking 
hands : recollect how you shook Lord Dash's hand the other 
da}^, and how j^ou shook o^poor Blank, when he came to bor- 
row five pounds of 3'ou. 

However, the genial influence of the Hollands speedily dissi- 
pated anything like coolness between us ; and, in the course of 
an hour's conversation, we became almost as intimate as when 
we were suff'ering together under the ferule of old Swishtail. 
Jack told me that he had quitted the army in disgust ; and that 
his father, who was to leave him a fortune, had died ten thou- 
sand pounds in debt : he did not touch upon his own circum- 
stances ; but I could read them in his elbows, which were 
peeping through his old frock. He talked a great deal, how- 
ever, of runs of luck, good and bad ; and related to me an 
infallible plan for breaking all the play-banks in Europe — a 
great number of old tricks ; — and a vast quantit}- of gin-punch 
was consumed on the occasion ; so long, in fact, did our con- 
versation continue, that, I confess it with shame, the sentiment, 
or something stronger, quite got the better of me, and I have, 
to this da}^, no sort of notion how our palaver concluded. — 
Only, on the next morning, I did not possess a certain five- 
pound note which on the previous evening was in m}^ sketch- 
book (by far the prettiest drawing by the way in the collection) ; 
but there, instead, was a strip of paper, thus inscribed : — 

I U 

Five Pounds. John Attwood, 

Late of the N — th Dragoons. 



A GAMBLER'S DEATH. 105 

I suppose Attwood borrowed the money, from this remarkable 
and ceremonious acknowledgment on his part : had I been sober 
I would just as soon have lent him the nose on ni}- face ; for, in 
my then circumstances, the note was of much more consequence 
to me. 

As I lay, cursing my ill fortune, and thinking how on earth 
I should manage to subsist for the next two months, Attwood 
burst into my little garret — his face strangel}^ flushed — sing- 
ing and shouting as if it had been the night before. " Tit- 
marsh," cried he, "you are my preserver! — my best friend! 
Look here, and here, and here ! " And at ever}^ word Mr. 
Attwood produced a handful of gold, or a glittering heap of 
five-franc pieces, or a bundle of greas}', dusky bank-notes, more 
bea,utiful than either silver or gold : — he had won thirteen 
thousand francs after leaving me at midnight in my garret. 
He separated my poor little all, of six pieces, from this shining 
and imposing collection ; and the passion of env3^ entered my 
soul : I felt far more anxious now than before, although star- 
vation was then staring me in the face ; I hated Attwood for 
cheating me out of all this wealth. Poor fellow ! it had been 
better for him had he never seen a shilling of it. 

However, a grand breakfast at the Cafe Anglais dissipated 
my chagrin ; and I will do ni}^ friend the justice to say, that he 
nobly shared some portion of his good fortune with me. As far 
as the creature comforts were concerned I feasted as well as 
he, and never was particular as to settling m}^ share of the 
reckoning. 

Jack now changed his • lodgings ; had cards, with Captain 
Attwood engraved on them, and drove about a prancing cab- 
horse, as tall as the giraffe at the Jardin des Plantes. ; he had 
as many frogs on his coat as in the old days, and frequented 
all the flash restaurateurs' and boarding-houses of the capital. 
Madame de Saint Laurent, and Madame la Baronne de Vau- 
drey, and Madame la Comtesse de Jonville, ladies of the highest 
rank, who keep a societe cholsie and condescend to give dinners 
at five-francs a head, vied with each other in their attentions to 
Jack. His was the wing of the fowl, and the largest portion 
of the Charlotte-Russe ; his was the place at the ecarte table, 
where the Countess would ease him nightly- of a few pieces, 
declaring that he was the most charming cavalier, la fleur 
d' Albion. Jack's society, it may be seen, was not very select; 
nor, in truth, were his inclinations : he was a careless, dare- 
devil, Macheath kind of fellow, who might be seen daily with a 
wife on each arm. 



106 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

It may be supposed that, with the life he led, his five hun- 
dred pounds of winnings would not last him long ; nor did they ; 
but, for some time, his luck never deserted him ; and his cash, 
instead of growing lower, seemed always to maintain a certain 
level : he played ever}^ night. 

Of course, such a humble fellow as I, could not hope for a 
continued acquaintance and intimacy with Attwood. He grew 
overbearing and cool, I thought ; at any rate I did not admire 
m}' situation as his follower and dependant, and left his grand 
dinner for a certain ordinary, where I could partake of five 
capital dishes for ninepence. OccasionalH^, however, Attwood 
favored me with a visit, or gave me a drive behind his great 
cab-horse. He had formed a whole host of friends besides. 
There was Fips, the barrister ; heaven knovfs what he was 
doing at Paris ; and Gortz, the West Indian, who was there 
on the same business, and Flapper, a medical student, — all 
these three I met one night at Flapper's rooms, where Jack was 
invited, and a great " spread" was laid in honor of him. 

Jack arrived rather late ~ he looked pale and agitated ; and, 
though he ate no supper, he drank raw brandy in such a manner 
as made Flapper's eyes wink : the poor fellow had but three 
bottles, and Jack bade fair to swallow them all. However, 
the West Indian generously remedied the evil, and producing a 
napoleon, we speedily got the change for it in the shape of four 
bottles of champagne. 

Our supper was uproariously harmonious ; Fips sung the 
good ' ' Old English Gentleman ; " Jack the ' ' British Grena- 
diers ; " and your humble servant, when called upon, sang that 
beautiful ditty, " When the Bloom is on the Rye," in a manner 
that drew tears from every eye, except Flapper's, who was 
asleep, and Jack's, who was singing the "Bay of Bisca}^ O," 
at the same time. Gortz and Fips were all the time lunging at 
each other with a pair of single-sticks, the barrister having a 
very strong notion that he was Richard the Third. At last 
Fips hit the West Indian such a blow across his sconce, that 
the other grew furious ; he seized a champagne-bottle, which 
was, providentiall}', empty, and hurled it across the room at 
Fips : had that celebrated barrister not bowed his head at the 
moment, the Queen's Bench would have lost one of its most 
eloquent practitioners. 

Fips stood as straight as he could ; his cheek was pale with 
wrath. " M-m-ister Go-gortz," he said, " I always heard you 
were a blackguard ; now I can pr-pr-peperove it. Flapper, 
your pistols ! every ge-ge-genlmn knows what I mean." 



A GAMBLER'S DEATH. 107 

Young Mr. Flapper had a small pair of pocket-pistols, which 
the tipsy barrister had suddenl}^ remembered, and with which 
he proposed to sacrifice the West Indian. Gortz was nothing 
loth, but was quite as valorous as the lawj^er. 

Attwood, who, in spite of his potations, seemed the soberest 
man of the party, had much enjoyed the scene, until this sudden 
demand for the weapons. "Pshaw ! " said he, eagerlj^, " don't 
give these men the means of murdering each other ; sit down 
and let us have another song." But they would not be still ; 
and Flapper forthwith produced his pistol-case, and opened it, 
in order that the duel might take place on the spot. There 
were no pistols there! "I beg your pardon," said Attwood, 
looking much confused ; "I — I took the pistols home with me 
to clean them ! " 

I don't know what there was in his tone, or in the words, but 
we were sobered all of a sudden. Attwood was conscious of 
the singular effect produced by him, for he blushed, and en- 
deavored to speak of other things, but we could not bring our 
spirits back to the mark again, and soon separated for the 
night. As we issued into the street Jack took me aside, 
and whispered, "Have j-ou a napoleon, Titmarsh, in your 
purse?' Alas! I was not so rich. M}^ reply was, that I 
was coming to Jack, onl}^ in the morning, to borrow a similar 
sum. 

He did not make an}' reply, but turned awa}^ homeward: I 
never heard him speak another word. 

Two mornings after (for none of our party met on the da}- 
succeeding the supper), I was awakened by my porter, who 
brought a pressing letter from Mr. Gortz : — 

" Dear T., — I wish you would come over here to breakfast. There's 
a row about Attwood. — Yours truly, 

" Solomon Gortz." 

I immediately set forward to Gortz's ; he lived in the Rue 
du Helder, a few doors from Attwood's new lodging. If the 
reader is curious to know the house in which the catastrophe of 
this history took place, he has but to march some twent}^ doors 
down from the Boulevard des Italiens, when he will see a fine 
door, with a naked Cupid shooting at him from the hall, and a 
Venus beckoning him up the stairs. On arriving at the West 
Indian's, at about mid-day (it was a Sunday morning) , I found 
that gentleman in his dressing-gown, discussing, in the com- 
pany of Mr Fips, a large plate of bifteck aux pommes. 



108 THE PARIS SKETCPI BOOK. 

" Here's a pretty row ! " said Gortz, quoting from his letter -, 
— ' ' Attwood's off — have a bit of beefsteak ? " 

" \Yhat do 3'ou mean?" exclaimed I, adopting the familiar 
phraseolog}^ of m}' acquaintances : — " Attwood off ? — has he 
cut his stick?" 

'' Not bad," said the feeling and elegant Fips — " not such 
a bad guess, mv bo}^ ; but he has not exactly cut his stick.'" 

''What then?" 

" Why^ his throat.'" The man's mouth was full of bleeding 
beef as he uttered this gentlemanly^ witticism. 

I wish I could sa}' that I was m3'self in the least affected by 
the news. I did not joke about it like ni}^ friend Fips ; this 
was more for propriet3''s sake than for feeling's : but for my 
old school acquaintance, the friend of my earl}^ daj's, the merry 
associate of the last few months, I own, with shame, that I had 
not a tear or a pang. In some German tale there is an account 
of a creature most beautiful and bewitching, whom all men 
admire and follow ; but this charming and fantastic spirit oiAy 
leads them, one b}^ one, into ruin, and then leaves them. The 
novelist, who describes her beaut}^, says that his heroine is a 
fair}', and has no heart. I think the intimac}' which is begotten 
over the wine-bottle, is a spirit of this nature ; I never knew a 
good feeling come from it, or an honest friendship made b}' it ; 
it only entices men and ruins them ; it is o\\\y a phantom of 
friendship and feeling, called up by the delhious blood, and the 
wicked spells of the wine. 

But to drop this strain of moralizing (in which the writer 
is not too anxious to proceed, for he cuts in it a most piti- 
ful figure), we passed sundr}^ criticisms upon poor Attwood's 
character, expressed our horror at his death — which sentiment 
was fully proved by Mr. Fips, who declared that the notion of 
it made him feel quite faint, and was obliged to drink a large 
glass of brandy ; and, finall}^, wx agreed that we w^ould go and 
see the poor fellow's corpse, and witness, if necessary, his 
burial. 

Flapper, who had joined us, was the first to propose this 
visit : he said he did not mind the fifteen francs which Jaclc 
owed him for billiards, but he was anxious to get hack his pistol: 
According!}', we sallied forth, and speedily arrived at the hotel 
which Attwood inhabited still. He had occupied, for a time, 
ver}^ fine apartments in this house : and it w^as only on arriving 
there that day that we found he had been gradually driven 
from his magnificent suite of rooms au premier^ to a little 
chamber in the fifth storj^ : — we mounted, and found him. It 



A GAMBLER'S DEATH. 109 

was a little shabb}^ room, with a few articles of rickety furni- 
ture, and a bed in an alcove ; the light from the one window 
was falling full upon the bed and the body. Jack was dressed 
in a fine lawn shirt; he had kept it, poor fellow, to die in; for 
in all his drawers and cupboards there vv^as not a single article 
of clothing ; he had pawned everything 1)3' which he could raise 
a penny — desk, books, dressing-case, and clothes; and not a 
single halfpenn}' was found in his possession.* 

He was lying as I have drawn him,t one hand on his breast, 
the other falhng towards the ground. There was an expression 
of peifect calm on the face, and no mark of blood to stain the 
side towards the light. On the other side, however, there was 
a great pool of black blood, and in it the pistol ; it looked more 
hke a to3' than a weapon to take away the hfe of this vigorous 
3'oung man. In his forehead, at the side, was a smalf black 
wound ; Jack's life had passed through it ; it was little bigger 
than a mole. 

" Regardez un peu," said the landlady, "messieurs, il m'a 
gate trois matelas, et il me doit quarante quatre francs." 

This was all his epitaph : he had spoiled three mattresses, 
and owed the landlady four-and-fort3' francs. In the whole 
world there was not a soul to love, him or lament him. We, 
his friends, were looking at his body more as an object of 
curiosit3' , watching it with a kind of interest with which one 
follows the fifth act of a traged3', and leaving it with the same 
feeling with which one leaves the theatre when the pla3^ is over 
and the curtain is down. 

Beside Jack's bed, on his little "table de nuit," la3^ the 
remains of his last meal, and an open letter, which we read. 
It was from one of his suspicious acquaintances of former da3's, 
and ran thus : — 

" Ou es'tu, cher Jack ? why you not come and see me — tu me dois de Tar- 
gent, entends tu"? — un chapeau, une cachemire, a 6o.r of the Play. Viens 
demain soir, je t'attendrai at eight o'clock, Passage des Panoramas. My Sh- 
is at his country. 

"Adieu a demain. 

" FlFINE. 

" Samedi" 



* In order to account for these trivial details, the reader must be told 
that the story is, for the chief part, a fact; and that the little sketch in this 
page was taken from nature. The letter was likewise a copy from one found 
in the manner described. 

t This refers to an illustrated edition of the work. 



110 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

I shuddered as I walked through this very Passage des 
Panoramas, in the evening. The girl was there, pacing to and 
fro, and looking in the countenance of every passer-b}^ to 
recognize Attwood. "Adieu X demain ! " — there was a 
dreadful meaning in the words, which the writer of them little 
knew. " Adieu a demain ! " — the morrow was come, and the 
soul of the poor suicide was now in the presence of God. I 
dare not think of his fate ; for, except in the fact of his povert}^ 
and desperation, was he worse than any of us, his companions, 
who had shared his debauches, and marched with him up to 
the very brink of the grave ? 

There is but one more circumstance to relate regarding poor 
Jack — his burial ; it was of a piece with his death. 

He was nailed into a paltr}" coffin and buried, at the expense 
of the arrondissement, in a nook of the burial-place bej^ond 
the Barriere de I'Etoile. The}^ buried him at six o'clock, of a 
bitter winter's morning, and it was with difficulty that an 
English clergyman could be found to read a service over his 
grave. The three men who have figured in this history- acted 
as Jack's mourners ; and as the ceremony was to take place so 
early in the morning, these men sat up the night through, mid 
were almost drunk as the}^ followed his coffin to its resting- 
place. 

MORAL. 

" When we turned out in our great-coats," said one of them 

afterwards, "reeking of cigars and brandy-and- water, d e, 

sir, we quite frightened the old buck of a parson ; he did not 
much like our company." After the ceremony was concluded, 
these gentlemen were very happ^' to get home to a warm 
and comfortable breakfast, and finished the day roj^ally at 
Frascati's. 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 

ON PKINCE LOUIS NAPOLEON'S WORK. 



Any person who recollects the history of the absurd out- 
break of Strasburg, in which Prince Louis Napoleon Bonaparte 
figured, three 3'ears ago, must remember that, however sillj^ 
the revolt was, however foohsh its pretext, however doubtful 
its aim, and inexperienced its leader, there was, nevertheless, 
a party, and a considerable one in France, that were not un- 
wilhng to lend the new projectors their aid. The troops who 
declared against the Prince, were, it was said, all but willing 
to declare for him ; and it was certain that, in many of the 
regiments of the arm}^ there existed a strong spirit of disaffec- 
tion, and an eager wish for the return of the imperial sj^stem 
and famity. 

As to the good that was to be derived from the change, that 
is another question. Why the Emperor of the French should 
be better than the King of the French, or the King of the 
French better than the King of France and Navarre, it is not 
our business to inquire ; but all the three monarchs have no 
lack of supporters ; republicanism has no lack of supporters ; 
St. Simonianism was followed b}^ a respectable body of admir- 
ers ; Robespierrlsm has a select part}' of friends. If, in a 
countr}' where so many quacks have had their da}^ Prince 
Louis Napoleon thought he might renew the imperial quacker}', 
wh}' should he not? It has recollections with it that must 
alwa3's be dear to a gallant nation ; it has certain claptraps 
in its vocabular}^ that can never fail to inflame a vain, restless, 
grasping, disappointed one. 

In the first place, and don't let us endeavor to disguise it, 
the}' hate us. Not, all the protestations of friendship, not all 
the wisdom of Lord Palmerston, not all the diplomacy of our 



112 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

distinguished plenipotentiaiy, Mr. Heniy Lytton Bulwer — and 
let us add, not all the benefit which both countries would derive 
from the alliance — can make it, in our times at least, perma- 
nent and cordial. They hate us. The Carlist organs revile us 
with a querulous fur}' that never sleeps ; the moderate part}', if 
they admit the utility of our alliance, are continually pointing- 
out our treachery, our insolence, and our monstrous infractions 
of it ; and for the Republicans, as sure as the morning comes, 
the columns of their journals thunder out volleys of fierce denun- 
ciations against our unfortunate country. They live by feeding 
the natural hatred against England, by keeping old wounds 
open, by recurring ceaselessly to the history of old quarrels, 
and as in these we, by God's help, by land and by sea, in old 
times and late, have had the uppermost, they perpetuate the 
shame and mortification of the losing party, the bitterness of 
past defeats, and the eager desire to avenge them. A party 
which knows how to exploiter this hatred will always be popular 
to a certain extent ; and the imperial scheme has this, at least, 
among its conditions. 

Then there is the favorite claptrap of the "natural fron- 
tier." The Frenchman yearns to be bounded by the Rhine 
and the Alps; and next follows the cry, " Let France take 
her place among nations, and direct, as she ought to do, the 
affairs of Europe." These are the two chief articles contained 
in the new imperial programme, if we may credit the journal 
which has been established to advocate the cause. A natural 
boundary — stand among the nations — popular development — 
Russian alhance, and a reduction of la perjide Albion to its 
proper insignificance. As yet we know little more of the 
plan : and yet such foundations are sufficient to build a party 
upon, and with such windy weapons a substantial Government 
is to be overthrown ! 

In order to give these doctrines, such as they are, a chance 
of finding favor with his countrymen, Prince Louis has the 
advantage of being able to refer to a former great professor 
of them — his uncle Napoleon. His attempt is at once pious 
and prudent ; it exalts the memory of the uncle, and furthers 
the interests of the nephew, who attempts to show what Na- 
poleon's ideas really were ; what good had already resulted 
from the practice of them ; how cruelly they had been thwarted 
by foreign wars and diflflculties ; and what vast benefits would 
have resulted from them ; ay, and (it is reasonable to con- 
clude) might still, if the French nation would be wise enough 
to pitch upon a governor that would continue the interrupted 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 113 

scheme. It is, however, to be borne in mind that the Em- 
peror Napoleon had certain arguments in favor of his opinions 
for the time being, which his nephew has not employed. On 
the 13th Vendemiaire, when General Bonaparte believed in the 
excellence of a Directory, it ma}' be remembered that he aided 
his opinions by fort}' pieces of artiller}', and b}' Colonel Murat 
at the head of his dragoons. There was no resisting such 
a philosopher ; the Directory was established forthwith, and 
the sacred cause of the minority triumphed. In like manner, 
when the General was convinced of the weakness of the Direc- 
tor}^, and saw fully the necessity of establishing a Consulate, 
what were his arguments? Moreau, Lannes, Murat, Berthier, 
Leclerc, Lefebvre — gentle apostles of the truth! — marched 
to St. Cloud, and there, with fixed bayonets, caused it to pre- 
vail. Error vanished in an instant. At once five hundred of 
its high-priests tumbled out of windows, and lo ! three Consuls 
appeared to guide the destinies of France ! How much more 
expeditious, reasonable, and clinching was this argument of the 
18th Brumaire, than any one that can be found in any pam- 
phlet ! A fig for your duodecimos and octavos ! Talk about 
points, there are none like those at the end of a bayonet ; and 
the most powerful of styles is a good rattling " article" from 
a nine-pounder. 

At least this is our interpretation of the manner in which 
were always propagated the Idees NapoUoniennes. Not such, 
however, is Prince Louis's belief; and, if you wish to go along 
with him in opinion, you will discover that a more liberal, 
peaceable, prudent Prince never existed : you will read that 
" the mission of Napoleon " was to be the " testamentary execu- 
tor of the revolution ; " and the Prince should have added the 
legatee ; or, more justly still, as well as the executor^ he should 
be called the executioner, and then his title would be complete. 
In Vendemiaire, the military Tartuffe, he threw aside the Rev- 
olution's natural heirs, and made her, as it were, alter her will ; 
on the 18th of Brumaire he strangled her, and on the 19th 
seized on her property, and kept it until force deprived him ol 
it. Illustrations, to be sure, are no arguments, but the exam- 
ple is the Prince's, not ours. 

In the Prince's eyes, then, his uncle is a god ; of all mon- 
archs, the most wise, upright, and merciful. Thirty years ago 
the opinion had millions of supporters ; while millions again 
were ready to avouch the exact contrary. It is curious to think 
of the former difference of opinion concerning Napoleon ; and, 
in reading his nephew's rapturous encomiums of him, one goes 



114 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

back to the daj^s when we ourselves were as loud and mad in 
his dispraise. Who does not remember his own personal ha- 
tred and horror, twent3'-five years ago, for the man whom we 
used to call the ' ' blood}^ Corsican upstart and assassin ? " 
What stories did we not believe of him ? — what murders, rapes, 
robberies, not lay to his charge? — we who were living within 
a few miles of liis territor^^, and might, by books and news- 
papers, be made as well acquainted with his merits or demerits 
as anj^ of his own countrymen. 

Then was the age when the Idees NapoUoniennes might have 
passed through man}' editions ; for while we were thus outra- 
geousl}^ bitter, our neighbors were as extravagantly attached to 
him by a strange infatuation — adored him like a god, whom 
we chose to consider as a fiend ; and vowed that, under his 
government, their nation had attained its highest pitch of gran- 
deur and glory. In revenge there existed in England (as is 
proved hy a thousand authentic documents) a monster so hid- 
eous, a t3'rant so ruthless and bloody, that the w^orld's histor}' 
cannot show his parallel. This ruffian's name was, during the 
earl}' part of the French revolution, Pittetcobourg. Pittetco- 
bourg's emissaries were in every corner of France ; Pittetco- 
bourg's gold chinked in the pockets of ever}^ traitor in Europe ; 
it menaced the life of the godlike Robespierre ; it drove into 
cellars and fits of delirium even the gentle philanthropist Ma- 
rat ; it fourteen times caused the dagger to be lifted against the 
bosom of the First Consul, Emperor, and King, — that first, 
great, glorious, irresistible, cowardly, contemptible, bloody hero 
and fiend, Bonaparte, before mentioned. 

On our side of the Channel we have had leisure, long since, 
to re-consider our verdict against Napoleon ; though, to be 
sure, we have not changed our opinion about Pittetcobourg. 
After five-and-thirty years all parties bear witness to his hon- 
est3% and speak with affectionate reverence of his patriotism, 
his genius, and his private virtue. In France, however, or, at 
least among certain parties in France, there has been no such 
modification of opinion. With the Republicans, Pittetcoboiu'g 
is Pittetcobourg still, — craft}", bloody, seeking whom he may 
devour ; and perjide Albion more perfidious than ever. This 
hatred is the point of union between the Republic and the Em- 
pire ; it has been fostered ever since, and must be continued b}' 
Prince Louis, if he would hope to conciliate both parties. 

With regard to the Emperor, then. Prince Louis erects to 
his memory as fine a monument as his wits can raise. One 
need not say that the imperial apologist's opinion should be 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 115 

received with the utmost caution ; for a man who has such a 
hero for an uncle ma}^ naturally be proud of and partial to him ; 
and when this nephew of the great man would be his heir like- 
wise, and, bearing his name, step also into his imperial shoes, 
one ma}^ reasonably look for much affectionate panegyric. 
" The empire was the best of empires," cries the Prince ; and 
possibh' it was ; undoubtedl}', the Prince thinks it was ; but he 
is the ver}' last person who would con^'ince a man with the proper 
suspicious impartialit}'. One remembers a certain consultation 
of politicians which is recorded in the Spelling-book ; and the 
opinion of that patriotic sage who avowed that, for a real 
blameless constitution, an impenetrable shield for libert}^, and 
cheap defence of nations, there was nothing like leather. 

Let us examine some of the Prince's article. If we may be 
allowed humbl}^ to express an opinion, his leather is not onl}^ 
quite insufficient for those vast public purposes for which he 
destines it, but is, moreover, and in itself, verj' had leather. The 
hides are poor, small, unsound slips of skin ; or, to drop this 
cobbling metaphor, the style is not particularly brilliant, the 
facts not ver}' startling, and, as for the conclusions, one may 
differ with almost every one of them. Here is an extract from 
his first chapter, " on governments in general : " — 

" I speak it with regret, I can see but two governments, at 
this day, which fulfil the mission that Providence has confided 
to them ; they are the two colossi at the end of the world ; one 
at the extremit}^ of the old world, the other at the extremit}^ of 
the new. Whilst our old European centre is as a volcano, con- 
suming itself in its crater, the two nations of the East and the 
West, march without hesitation, towards perfection ; the one 
under the will of a single individual, the other under libert3\ 

"Providence has confided to the United States of North 
America the task of peopling and civilizing that immense ter- 
ritory which stretches from the Atlantic to the South Sea, and 
from the North Pole to the Equator. The Government, which 
is only a simple administration, has only hitherto been called 
upon to put in practice the old adage, Laissez faire^ laissez 
passer^ in order to favor that irresistible instinct which pushes 
the people of America to the west. 

" In Russia it is to the imperial d3'nasty that is owing all 
the vast progress which, in a century and a half, has rescued 
that empire from barbarism. The imperial power must con- 
tend against all the ancient prejudices of our old Europe : it 
must centralize, as far as possible, all the powers of the state 
in the hands of one person, in order to destroy the abuses 



116 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

which the feudal and communal franchises have served to per- 
petuate. The last alone can hope to receive from it the im- 
provements which it expects. 

"But thou, France of Henry IV., of Louis XIV., of Car- 
not, of Napoleon — thou, who wert alwa^'s for the west of 
Europe the source of progress, who possessest in th3^self the 
two great pillars of empire, the genius for the arts of peace 
and the genius of war — hast thou no further mission to fulfil ? 
Wilt thou never cease to waste th}?- force and energies in intes- 
tine struggles ? No ; such cannot be th}'' destin}" : the day 
will soon come, when, to govern thee, it will be necessary to 
understand that thy part is to place in all treaties thy sword of 
Brennus on the side of civilization." 

These are the conclusions of the Prince's remarks upon 
governments in general ; and it must be supposed that the 
reader is verj^ little wiser at the end than at the beginning. 
But two governments in the world fulfil their mission : the one 
government, which is no government ; the other, which is a 
despotism. The dut}^ of France is in all treaties to place her 
sword of Brennus in the scale of civilization. Without quar- 
relling with the somewhat confused language of the latter prop- 
osition, may we ask what, in heaven's name, is the meaning of 
all the three? What is this epee de Brennus^ and how is 
France to use it? Where is the great source of political truth, 
from which, flowing pure, we trace American republicanism in 
one stream, Russian despotism in another? Vastly prosperous 
is the great republic, if you will : if dollars and cents consti- 
tute happiness, there is plenty for all: but can au}^ one, who 
has read of the American doings in the late frontier troubles, 
and the dail}^ disputes on the slave question, praise the Govern- 
ment of the States? — a Government which dares not punish 
homicide or arson performed before its ver}' e3'es, and which 
the pirates of Texas and the pirates of Canada can brave at 
their will? There is no government, but a prosperous anarch}' ; 
as the Prince's other favorite government is a prosperous sla- 
ver}'. What, then, is to be the epee de Brennus government? 
Is it to be a mixture of the two? " Societ}^" writes the 
Prince, axiomaticall}^, "contains in itself two principles — the 
one of progress and immortalit}^, the other of disease and dis- 
organization." No doubt ; and as the one tends towards lib- 
erty, so the other is only to be cured b}^ order : and then, with 
a singular felicit}'. Prince Louis picks us out a couple of gov- 
ernments, in one of which the common regulating power is as 
notoriously too weak, as it is in the other too strong, and talks 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 117 

iu rapturous terms of the manner in which they fulfil their 
' ' providential mission ! " 

From these considerations on things in general, the Prince 
conducts us to Napoleon in particular, and enters largel}' into 
a discussion of the merits of the imperial system. Our author 
speaks of the Emperor's advent in the following grandiose 
wa}^ : — 

"Napoleon, on arriving at the public stage, saw that his 
part was to be the testamentary executor of the Revolution. 
The destructive fire of parties was extinct ; and when the Revo- 
lution, dying, but not vanquished, delegated to Napoleon the 
accomplishment of her last will, she said to him, ' Establish 
upon solid bases the principal result of my efforts. Unite 
divided Frenchmen. Defeat feudal Europe that is leagued 
against me. Cicatrize my wounds. Enlighten the nations. 
Execute that in width, which I have had to perform in depth. 
Be for Europe what I have been for France. And, even if 
you must water the tree of civilization with 3'our blood — if 
you must see jonv projects misunderstood, and your sons with- 
out a countr}', wandering over the face of the earth, never 
abandon the sacred cause of the French people. Insure its 
triumph b}^ all the means which genius can discover and hu- 
manity approve.' 

" This grand mission Napoleon performed to the end. His 
task was difficult. Tie had to place upon new principles a 
society still boiling with hatred and revenge ; and to use, for 
building up, the same instruments which had been employed 
for pulling down. 

"The common lot of every new truth that arises, is to 
wound rather than to convince — rather than to gain prose- 
lytes, to awaken fear. For, oppressed as it long has been, it 
rushes forward with additional force ; having to encounter 
obstacles, it is compelled to combat^em, and overthrow them ; 
until, at length, comprehended anc^dopted b}^ the generality, 
it becomes the basis of new social order. 

" Libert^' will follow the same march as the Christian relig- 
ion. Armed with death from the ancient society of Rome, it 
for a long while excited the hatred and fear of the people. At 
last, by force of martyrdoms and persecutions, the religion of 
Christ penetrated into the conscience and the soul ; it soon had 
kings and armies at its orders, and Constantinc and Charle- 
magne bore it triumphant throughout Europe. Rehgion then 
laid down her arms of war. It laid open to all the principles 
of peace and order which it contained ; it became the prop of 



118 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Government, as it was the organizing element of societ3\ 
Thus will it be with libert}^ In 1793 it frightened people and 
sovereigns alike ; then, having clothed itself in a milder garb, 
it insinuated itself everywhere in the train of our battalions. In 
1815 all parties adopted its flag, and armed themselves with 
its moral force — covered themselves with its colors. The 
adoption was not sincere, and liberty was soon obliged to re- 
. assume its warlike accoutrements. With the contest their fears 
returned. Let us hope that they will soon cease, and that lib- 
erty will soon resume her peaceful standards, to quit them no 
more. 

' ' The Emperor Napoleon contributed more than an}^ one 
else towards accelerating the reign of liberty, by saving the 
moral influence of the revolution, and diminishmg the fears 
which it imposed. Without the Consulate and the Empire, the 
revolution would have been onl}^ a grand drama, leaving grand 
revolutions but no traces : the revolution would have been 
drowned in the counter-revolution. The contrary, however, 
was the case. Napoleon rooted the revolution in France, and 
introduced, throughout Europe, the principal benefits of the 
crisis of 1789. To use his own words, ' He purified the revolu- 
tion, he confirmed kings, and ennobled people.' He purified the 
revolution, in separating the truths which it contained from the 
passions that, during its delirium, disfigured it. He ennobled 
the people in giving them the consciousness of their force, and 
those institutions which raise men in their own eyes. The 
Emperor may be considered as the Messiah of the new ideas ; 
for — and we must confess it — in the moments immediately 
succeeding a social revolution, it is not so essential to put 
rigidly into practice all the propositions resulting from the new 
theory, but to become master of the regenerative genius, to 
identify one's self with the sentiments of the people, and boldly 
to direct them towards the^esired point. To accomplish such 
a task your fibre should respond to that of the people., as the Em- 
peror said ; you should feel like it, your interests should be so 
intimately raised with its own, that you should vanquish or fall 
together." 

Let us take breath after these big phrases, — grand round 
figures of speech, — which, when put together, amount like 
certain other combinations of round figures to exactly 0. We 
shall not stop to argue the merits and demerits of Prince Louis's 
notable comparison between the Christian religion and the 
Imperial-revolutionary S3^stem. There are man}' blunders in 
the above extract as we read it ; blundering metaphors, 1)1 under- 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 119 

ing arguments, and blundering assertions ; but this is sural}' 
the grandest blunder of all ; and one wonders at the blindness 
of the legislator and historian who can advance such a parallel. 
And what are we to say of the legacy of the dying revolution 
to Napoleon? Revolutions do not die, and, on their death- 
beds, making fine speeches, hand over their property to young 
officers of artillery. We have all read the history of his rise. 
The constitution of the year III. was carried. Old men of the 
Montague, disguised royalists, Paris sections, Pittetcobourg , 
above all, with his money-bags, thought that here was a fine 
opportunity for a revolt, and opposed the new constitution in 
arms : the new constitution had knowledge of a young oflficer 
who would not hesitate to defend its cause, and who effectually 
beat the majority. The tale may be found in every account of 
the revolution, and the rest of his sto»' need not be told. We 
know every step that he took : we know how, by doses of 
cannpn-balJs promptly administered, he cured the fever of the 
secLions — that fever which another camp-physician (Menou) 
declined to presciibe for ; we know how he abolished the Di- 
rectory ; and how the Consulship came ; and then the Empire ; 
and tiien the disgrace, exile, and lonely death. Has not all 
this been written by historians in all tongues ? — by memoir- 
writing pages, chamberlains, marshals, lacke3'S, secretaries, 
contemporaries, and ladies of honor? Not a word of miracle 
is there in all this narration ; not a word of celestial missions, 
or political Messiahs. From Napoleon's rise to his fall, the 
bayonet marches alongside of him : now he points it at the 
tails of the scampering '• five hundred," — now he charges with 
it across the bloody planks of Areola — now he flies before it 
over the fatal plain of Waterloo. 

Unwilling, however, as he may be to grant that there are 
any spots in the character of his hero's government, the Prince 
is, nevertheless, obliged to allow that such existed ; that the 
Emperor's manner of rule was a little more abrupt and dicta- 
torial than might possibly be agreeable. For this the Prince 
has always an answer ready -^ it is the same poor one that 
Napoleon uttered a million of times to his companions in 
exile — the excuse of necessity. He icould have been very 
liberal, but that the people were not fit for it; or that the 
cursed war prevented him — or any other reason why. His 
first duty, however, says his apologist, was to form a gen- 
eral union of Frenchmen, and he set about his plan in this 
wise : — 

" Let us not forget, that all which Napoleon undertook, in 



120 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

order to create a general fusion, he performed without re- 
nouncing the principles of the revolution. He recalled the 
emigres^ without touching upon the law b}'' which their goods 
had been confiscated and sold as public propert3^ He re- 
established the Catholic religion at the same time that he pro- 
claimed the libert}' of conscience, and endowed equally the 
ministers of all sects. He caused himself to be consecrated by 
the Sovereign Pontiff, without concediiig to the Pope's demand 
an}' of the liberties of the Grallican church. He married a 
daughter of the Emferor of Austria, without abandoning any 
of the rights of France to the conquests she had made. He re- 
established noble titles, without attaching to them an}' privi- 
leges or prerogatives, and these titles were conferred on all 
ranks, on all services, on all professions. Under the empire 
all idea of caste was destr4)yed ; no m^an ever thought of vaunt- 
ing his pedigree — no man ever was asked how he was born, 
but what he had done. 

" The first qualit}' of a people which aspires to liberal gov- 
ernment, is respect to the law. Now, a law has, no other power 
than lies in the interest which each citizen has to defend or to 
contravene it. In order to make a people respect the law, it 
was necessary that it should be executed in the interest of all, 
and should consecrate the principle of equality in all its exten- 
sion. It was necessary to restore the prestige with which the 
Government had been formerly invested, and to make tJie prin- 
ciples of the revolution take root in the public manners. At 
the commencement of a new societj^ it is the legislator who 
makes or corrects the manners ; later, it is the manners which 
make the law, or preserve it from age to age intact." 

Some of these fusions are amusing. No man in the empire 
was asked how he was born, but what he had done ; and, ac- 
cordingl}', as a man's actions were sufficient to illustrate him, 
the Emperor took care to make a host of new title-bearers, 
princes, dukes, barons, and what not, whose rank has de- 
scended to their children. He married a princess of Austria ; 
but, for all that, did not abandon* his conquests ~ perhaps not 
actually ; but he abandoned his allies, and, eventually, his whole 
kingdom. Who does not recollect his answer to the Poles, at 
the commencement of the Russian campaign? But for Napo- 
leon's imperial father-in-law, Poland would have been a king- 
dom, and his race, perhaps, imperial still. Wh}^ was he to 
fetch -this princess out of Austria to make heirs for his throne? 
Why did not the man of the people marr}- a girl of the people ? 
Why must he have a Pope to crown him — half a dozen kings 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 121 

for brothers, and a bevy of aides-de-camp dressed out like so 
many mountebanks from Astley's, with dukes' coronets, and 
grand bkie velvet marshals' batons? We have repeatedl}' his 
words for it. He wanted to create an aristocracy — another 
acknowledgment on his part of the Eepublican dilemma — 
another apology for the revolutionary blunder. To keep the re- 
public within bounds, a despotism is necessary ; to rally round 
the despotism, an aristocracy must be created; and for what 
have we been laboring all this while? for what have bastiles 
been battered down, and king's heads hurled, as a gage of 
battle, in the face of armed Europe? To have a Duke of 
Otranto instead of a Duke de la Tremouille, and Emperor Stork 
in place of King Log. O lame conclusion ! Is the blessed 
revolution which is prophesied for us in England only to end in 
establishing a Prince Fergus O'Connor, or a Cardinal Wade, or 
a Duke Daniel Whittle Harvey? Great as those patriots are, 
we love them better under their simple familj' names, and scorn 
titles and coronets. 

At present, in France, the delicate matter of titles seems to 
be better arranged, any gentleman, since the Revolution, being 
free to adopt any one he ma}' fix upon ; and it appears that the 
Crown no longer confers any patents of nobihty, but contents 
itself with saying, as in the case of M. de Pontois, the other 
day, " Le Moi tronve convenaUe that 3'ou take the title of," &c. 

To execute the legacy of the revolution, then ; to fulfil his 
providential mission ; to keep his place, — in other words, for 
the simplest are alwaj-s the best, — to keep his place, and to 
keep his Government in decent order, the Emperor was obliged 
to establish a military despotism, to re-establish honors and 
titles ; it was necessar}- , as the Prince confesses, to restore the 
old prestige of the Government, in order to make the people re- 
spect it ; and he adds — a truth which one hardly would expect 
from him, — "At the commencement of a new society, it is 
the legislator who makes and corrects the manners ; later, it 
is the manners which preserve the laws." Of course, and here 
is the great risk that all revolutionizing people run — they must 
tend to despotism ; " they must personify themselves in a man," 
is the Prince's phrase ; and, according as is his temperament or 
disposition — ^ according as he is a Cromwell, a Washington, 
or a Napoleon — the revolution becomes t3Tanny or freedom, 
prospers or falls. 

Somewhere in the St. Helena memorials. Napoleon reports 
a message of his to the Pope. " Tell the Pope," he saj-s to 
an archbishop, " to remember that I have six hundred thousand 



122 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

armed Frenchmen, qui marcheront avec moi, pour moi, et comme 
rnoi." And this is the legac}^ of the revolution, the advance- 
ment of freedom ! A hundred volumes of imperial special 
pleading will not avail against such a speech as this — one so 
insolent, and at the same time so humiliating, which gives un- 
wittingi}' the whole of the Emperor's progress, strength, and 
weakness. The six hundred thousand armed Frenchmen were 
used up, and the whole fabric falls ; the six hundred thousand 
are reducad to sixty thousand, and straightway all the rest of 
the fine imperial scheme vanishes : the miserable senate, so 
crawling and abject but now, becomes of a sudden endowed 
with a wondrous independence ; the miserable sham nobles, 
sham empress, sham kings, dukes, princes, chamberlains, pack 
up their plumes and embroideries, pounce upon what money and 
plate they can lay their hands on, and when the allies appear 
before Paris, when for courage and manliness there is yet hope> 
when with fierce marches hastening to the relief of his capital, 
bursting through ranks upon ranks of the enemy, and crushing 
or scattering them from the path of his swift and victorious de- 
spair, the Emperor at last is at home, — where are the great 
dignitaries and the lieutenant-generals of the empire? Where 
is Maria Louisa, the Empress Eagle, with her little callow king 
of Rome? Is she going to defend her nest and her eaglet?- 
Not she. Empress-queen, lieutenant-general, and court digni- 
taries, are off on the wings of all the winds — profligati sunt^ 
they are awa}^ with the money-bags, and Louis Stanislas Xavier 
rolls into the palace of his fathers. 

With regard to Napoleon's excellences as an administrator, 
a legislator, a constructor of public v/orks, and a skilful finan- 
cier, his nephew^ speaks with much diffuse praise, and few per- 
sons, we suppose, will be disposed to contradict him. Whether 
the Emperor composed his famous code, or borrowed it, is of 
little importance ; but he established it, and made the law equal 
for ever}' man in France except one. His vast public works 
and vaster wars were carried on without new loans or exor- 
bitant taxes ; it was only the blood and liberty of the people 
that were taxed, and we shall want a better advocate than 
Prince Louis to show us that these were not most unnecessarily 
and lavishly thrown away. As for the former and material im- 
provements, it is not necessary to confess here that a despotic 
energ3' can eflfect such far more readilj^ than a Government of 
which the strength is diffused in man}^ conflicting parties. No 
doubt, if we could create a despotical governing machine, 
a steam autocrat, — passionless, untiring, and supreme, — we 



NAPOLEON AND HIS SYSTEM. 123 

should advance further, and live more at ease than under 
any other form of government. Ministers might enjoj^ their 
pensions and follow their own devices ; Lord John might 
compose histories or tragedies at his leisure, and Lord 
Palmerston, instead of racking his brains to write leading 
articles for Cupid, might crown his locks with flowers, and 
sing eptora /xovvoi', liis natural Anacreontics ; but alas ! not so : 
if the despotic Government has its good side, Prince Louis 
Napoleon must acknowledge that it has its bad, and it is 
for this that the civilized world is compelled to substitute for 
it something more orderly and less capricious. Good as the 
Imperial Government might have been, it must be recollected, 
too, that since its first fall, both the Emperor and his admirer 
and would-be successor have had thei-r chance of re-establishing 
it. "Fly from steeple to steeple "the eagles of the former 
did actuall}', and according to promise perch for a while on the 
towers of Notre Dame. We know the event : if the fate of war 
declared against the Emperor, the countr}' declared against him 
too ; and, with old Lafa3^ette for a mouthpiece, the representa- 
tives of the nation did, in a neat speech, pronounce themselves 
in peraianence, but spoke no more of the Emperor than if he 
had never been. Thereupon the Emperor proclaimed his son 
the Emperor Napoleon II. " L'Empereur est mort, vive I'Em- 
pereur ! " shouted Prince Lucien. Psha ! not a soul echoed the 
words : the pla}' was pla^'ed, and as for old Lafayette and his 
" permanent" representatives, a corporal with a hammer nailed 
up the door of their spouting-club, and once more Louis Stanis- 
las Xavier rolled back to !he bosom of his people. 

In like manner Napoleon III. returned from exile, and made 
his appearance on the frontier. His eagle appeared at Stras- 
burg, and from Strasburg advanced to the capital ; but it arrived 
at Paris with a keeper, and in a post-chaise ; whence, b}" the 
orders of the sovereign, it was removed to the American shores, 
and there magnanimously let loose. Who knows, however, 
how soon it may be on the wing again, and what a flight it will 
take? 



THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 



"Go, my nephew," said old Father Jacob to me, "and 
complete thy studies at Strasburg : Heaven surety hath ordained 
thee for the ministry in these times of trouble, and m}^ excellent 
friend Schneider will work out the divine intention." 

Schneider was an old college friend of uncle Jacob's, was a 
Benedictine monk, and a man famous for his learning ; as for 
me, I was at that time my uncle's chorister, clerk, and sacris- 
tan ; I swept the church, chanted the prayers with m}^ shrill 
treble, and swung the great copper incense-pot on Sundays and 
feasts ; and I toiled over the Fathers for the other da3's of the 
week. 

The old gentleman said that m}^ progress was prodigious, 
and, without vanity, I beheve he was right, for I then verily 
considered that praying was m^^ vocation, and not fighting, as 
I have found since. 

You would hardly conceive (said the Captain, swearing a 
great oath) how devout and how learned I was in those days ; 
I talked Latin faster than my own beautiful patois of Alsacian 
French ; I could utterly overthrow in argument every Protest- 
ant (heretics we called them) parson in the neighborhood, and 
there was a confounded sprinkling of these unbelievers in our 
part of the country. I prayed half a dozen times a day ; I 
fasted thrice in a week ; and, as for penance, I used to scourge 
my little sides, till they had no more feeling than a peg-top : 
such was the godly life I led at my uncle Jacob's in the village 
of Steinbach. 

Our family had long dwelt in this place, and a large farm 
and a pleasant house were then in the possession of another 
uncle — uncle Edward. He was the j^oungest of the three sons 



THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 125 

of my grandfiither ; but Jacob, the elder, had shown a decided 
voeiitioii for the church, fi'om, I believe, the age of three, and 
DOW was by no means tired of it at sixty. My father, who was 
to have inherited the paternal property, was, as I hear, a terrible 
scamp and scapegrace, quarrelled with his family, and dis- 
appeared altogether, living and dying at Paris ; so far we knew 
through my mother, who came, poor woman, with me, a child 
of six months, on her bosom, was refused all shelter by my 
grandfather, but was housed and kindly cared for by my good 
uncle Jacob. 

Here she lived for about seven years, and the old gentleman, 
when she died, wept over her grave a great deal more than I 
did, who was then too young to mind anything but toys or 
sweetmeats. 

During this time my grandfather was likewise carried off: 
he left, as I said, the property to his son Edward, with a small 
proviso in his will that something should be done for me, his 
grandson. 

Edward was himself a widower, with one daughter, Mary, 
about three years older than I, and certainly she was the dear- 
est little treasure with which Providence ever blessed a miserly 
father ; by the time she was fifteen, five farmers, three lawyers, 
twelve Protestant parsons, and a lieutenant of Dragoons had 
made her offers : it must not be denied that she was an heiress 
as well as a beauty, which, perhaps, had something to do with 
the love of these gentlemen. However, Mary declared that 
she intended to live single, turned away her lovers one after 
another, and devoted herself to the care of her father. 

Uncle Jacob was as fond of her as he was of any saint or 
martyr. As for me, at the mature age of twelve I had made a 
kind of divinity of her, and when we sang "Ave Maria" on 
Sundays I could not refrain from turning to her, where she 
knelt, blushing and praying and looking like an angel, as she 
was. Besides her beauty, Mary had a thousand ^ood qualities ; 
she could play better on the harpsichord, she could dance more 
lightly, she could make better pickles and puddings, than any 
gu-1 in Alsace ; there was not a want or a fancy of the old hunks 
her father, or a wish of mine or my uncle's, that she would not 
gratify if she could ; as for herself, the sweet soul had neither 
wants nor wishes except to see us happy. 

I could talk to you for a year of all the pretty kindnesses that 
she would do for me ; how, when she found me of early morn- 
ings among my books, her presence " would cast a light upon 
the day ; " how she used to smooth and fold my little surplice, 



126 THE TAUlb SKETCH LOOK. 

and embroider me caps and gowns for high feast-daj^s ; how 
she used to bring flowers for the altar, and who could deck it 
so well as she? But sentiment does not come glibly from under 
a grizzled moustache, so I will drop it, if 3'ou please. 

Amongst other favors she showed me, Mar}' used to be par- 
ticularly- fond of kissing me : it was a thing I did not so much 
value in those days, but I found that the more I grew alive Ui 
the extent of the benefit, the less she would condescend to con- 
fer it on me ; till at last, when I was about fourteen, she dis- 
continued it altogether, of her own wish at least ; onl}' some- 
times 1 used to be rude, and take what she had now become so 
mighty unwilling to give. 

I was engaged in a contest of this sort one day with Mary, 
when, just as I was about to carrj' off a kiss from her cheek, I 
was saluted with a staggering slap on m}- own, which was be- 
stowed by uncle Edward, and sent me reeling some yards down 
the garden. 

The old gentleman, whose tongue was generally as close as 
his purse, now poured forth a flood of eloquence which quite 
astonished me. I did not think that so much was to be said 
on any subject as he managed to utter on one, and that was 
abuse of me ; he stamped, he swore, he screamed ; and then, 
from complimenting me, he turned to Mar}-, and saluted her 
in a manner equally forcible and significant ; she, who was very 
much frightened at the commencement of the scene, grew very 
angry at the coarse words he used, and the wicked motives he 
imputed to her. 

"The child is but fourteen," she said; "he is 3'our own 
nephew, and a candidate for holj' orders : — father, it is a shame 
that 3-0U should thus speak of me, your daughter, or of one of 
his holy profession." 

I did not particularly admire this speech myself, but it had 
an effect on my uncle, and was the cause of the words with which 
this history commences. The old gentleman persuaded his 
brother that I must be sent to Strasburg, and there kept until 
my studies for the church were concluded. I was furnished 
with a letter to my uncle's old college chum, Professor Schneider, 
who was to instruct me in theolog}^ and Greek. 

I was not sorry to see Strasburg, of the wonders of which I 
had heard so much ; but felt ver}- loth as the time drew near 
when I must quit my pretty cousin, and m}^ good old uncle. 
Mary and I managed, however, a parting walk, in which a 
number of tender things were said on both sides. I am told 
that you Englishmen consider it cowardly to cry ; as for me, I 




OLD HOUSES IN STKASBUKG- 



THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 127 

wept and roared incessantly : when Mary squeezed me, for the 
last time, the tears came out of me as if I had been neither 
more nor less than a great wet sponge. My cousin's eyes were 
stoically dry ; her ladyship had a part to play, and it would 
have been wrong for her to be in love with a young chit of four- 
teen — so she carried herself with perfect coolness, as if there 
was nothing the matter. I should not have known that she 
cared for me, had it not been for a letter which she wrote me a 
month afterwards — then^ nobody was by, and the consequence 
was that the letter was half washed awa}^ with her weeping ; if 
she had used a watering-pot the thing could not have been better 
done. 

Well, I arrived at Strasburg — a dismal, old-fashioned, 
rickety town in those days — and straightway presented mj^- 
self and letter at Schneider's door ; over it was written — 

COMITE DE SALUT PUBLIC. 

Would you believe it? I was so ignorant a 3"0ung fellow, 
that I had no idea of the meaning of the words ; however, I 
entered the citizen's room without fear, and sat down in his 
ante-chamber until I could be admitted to see him. 

Here I found very few indications of his reverence's pro- 
fession ; the walls were hung round with portraits of Robes- 
pierre, Marat, and the like ; a great bust of Mirabeau, mutilated, 
with the word Trciitre underneath ; lists and republican procla- 
mations, tobacco-pipes and fire-arms. At a deal-table, stained 
with grease and wine, sat a gentleman, with a huge pigtail 
dangling down to that part of his person which immediatelj^ 
succeeds his back, and a red nightcap, containing a tricolor 
cockade as large as a pancake. He was smoking a short pipe, 
reading a little book, and sobbing as if his heart would break. 
Every now and then he would make brief remarks upon the 
personages or the incidents of his book, by which I could judge 
that he was a man of the very keenest sensibihties — "Ah, 
brigand ! " " malheureuse ! " " O Charlotte, Charlotte ! " 
The work which this gentleman was perusing is called " The 
Sorrows of Werter ; " it was all the rage in those days, and mj^ 
friend was only following the fashion. I asked him if I could 
see Father Schneider? he turned towards me a hideous, pimpled 
face, which I dream of now at fort}^ years' distance. 

" Father who ?" said he. "Do you imagine that citizen 
Schneider has not thrown off the absurd mummery of priest- 
hood ? If you were a little older you would go to prison for 
calling him Father Schneider — many a man has died for less : " 



128 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

and he pointed to a picture of a guillotine, which was hanging 
in the room. 

I was in amazement. 

"What is he? Is he not a teacher of Greek, an abbe, a 
monk, until monasteries were abolished, the learned editor of 
the songs of ' Anacreon ? ' " 

" He was all this," replied n\y grim friend ; " he is now a 
Member of the Committee of Public Safet}^, and would think no 
more of ordering your head off than of drinking this tumbler of 
beer." 

He swallowed, himself, the froth}^ liquid, and then proceeded 
to give me the history of the man to whom my uncle had sent 
me for instruction. 

Schneider was born in 1756 : was a student at Wiirzburg, 
and afterwards entered a convent, where he remained nine years. 
He here became distinguished for his learning and his talents as 
a preacher, and became chaplain to Duke Charles of Wiirtem- 
berg. The doctrines of the Illuminati began about this time to 
spread in Germany, and Schneider speedily joined the sect. 
He had been a professor of Greek at Cologne ; and being com- 
pelled, on account of his irregularity, to give up his chair, he 
came to Strasburg at the commencement of the French Revolu- 
tion, and acted for some time a principal part as a revolutionar}^ 
agent at Strasburg. 

[" Heaven knows what would have happened to me had I 
continued long under his tuition ! " said the Captain. " I owe 
the preservation of my morals entirel}^ to my entering the army. 
A man, sir, who is a soldier, has ver}^ little time to be wicked : 
except in the case of a siege and the sack of a town, when a 
little license can offend nobody."] 

By the time that my friend had concluded Schneider's biog- 
raphy, we had grown tolerabl}' intimate, and I imparted to 
him (with that experience so remarkable in j^outh) my whole 
history — my course of studies, my pleasant countr}- life, the 
names and qualities of m}" dear relations, and m}' occupations 
in the vestry before religion was abolished by order of the Re- 
public. In the course of my speech I recurred so often to the 
name of my cousin Mar}^ that the gentleman could not fail to 
perceive what a tender place she had in m}^ heart. 

Then we reverted to "The Sorrows of Werter," and dis- 
cussed the merits of that sublime performance. Although I had 
before felt some misgivings about my new acquaintance, my 
heart now quite yearned towards him. He talked about love 
and sentiment in a manner which made me recollect that I was 



THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 129 

in love myself ; and 3'ou know that when a man is in that con- 
dition, his taste is not very refined, Siny maudlin trash of prose 
or verse appearing sublime to him, provided it correspond, in 
some degree, with his own situation. 

" Candid youth ! " cried my unknown, " I love to hear th}' 
innocent stor}^ and look on th3' guileless face. There is, alas ! 
so much of the contrary in this world, so much terror and crime 
and blood, that we who mingle with it are only too glad to for- 
get it. Would that we could shake off our cares as men, and 
be boys, as thou art, again ! " 

Here my friend began to weep once more, and fondly shook 
my hand. 1 blessed mj- stars that I had, at the very outset 
of m}' career, met with one who was so likelj' to aid me. What 
a slanderous world it is, thought I ; the people in our village 
call these Republicans wicked and bloody-minded ; a lamb could 
not be more tender than this sentimental bottle-nosed gentleman ! 
The worthy man then gave me to understand that he held a 
place under Government. I was bus}^ in endeavoring to dis- 
cover what his situation might be, when the door of the next 
apartment opened, and Schneider made his appearance. 

At first he did not notice me, but he advanced to m}- new 
acquaintance, and gave him, to my astonishment, something 
very like a blow. 

" You drunken, talking fool," he said, " you are always after 
your time. Fourteen people are cooling their heels yonder, 
waiting until jou have finished your beer and your sentiment ! " 

My friend slunk muttering out of the room. 

" That fellow," said Schneider, turning to me, " is our public 
executioner : a capital hand too if he would but keep decent 
time ; but the brute is always drunk, and blubbering over ' The 
Sorrows of Werter ! ' " 

I know not whether it was his old friendship for mj^ uncle, 
or my proper merits, which won the heart of this the sternest 
ruffian of Robespierre's crew ; but certain it is, that he became 
strangely attached to me, and kept me constantly about his 
person. As for the priesthood and the Greek, they were of 
course very soon out of the question. The Austrians were on 
our frontier ; every day brought us accounts of battles won ; 
and the j^outh of Strasburg, and of all France, indeed, were 
bursting with military ardor. As for me, I shared the general 
mania, and speedily mounted a cockade as large as that of my 
friend, the executioner. 

The occupations of this worth}' were unremitting. Saint 





130 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Just, who had come down from Paris to pi-eside over our town, 
executed the laws and the aristocrats with terrible punctualitj^ ; 
and Schneider used to make countr}^ excursions in search of 
offenders with this fellow, as a provost-marshal, at his back. 
In the meantime, having entered m}' sixteenth 3'ear, and being 
a proper lad of mj^ age, I had joined a regiment of cavalry, and 
was scampering now after the Austrians who menaced us, and 
now threatening the Emigres, who were banded at Coblentz. 
My love for my dear cousin increased as m}' whiskers grew ; 
and when I was scarcely seventeen, I thought myself man 
enough to marry her, and to cut the throat of any one who 
should venture to say me nay. 

I need not tell 3'ou that during my absence at Strasburg, 
gi-eat changes had occurred in our little village, and somewhat 
of the revolutionary rage had penetrated even to that quiet and 
distant place. The hideous " Fete of the vSupreme Being " had 
been celebrated at Paris ; the practice of our ancient religion 
was forbidden ; its professors were most of them in conceal- 
ment, or in exile, or had expiated on the scaffold their crime of 
Christianity. In our poor village my uncle's church was closed, 
and he, himself, an inmate in m}- brother's house, only owing 
his safety to his great popularity among his former flock, and 
the influence of Edward Ancel. 

The latter had taken in the Revolution a somewhat promi- 
nent part ; that is. he had engaged in raau}^ contracts for the 
army, attended the clubs regularly, corresponded with the au- 
thorities of his department, and was loud in his denunciations 
of the aristocrats in the neighborhood. But owing, perhaps, to 
the German origin of the peasantry, and their quiet and rustic 
lives, the revolutionary fury which prevailed in the cities had 
hardly reached the country people. The occasional visit of a 
commissary from Paris or'Strasburg served to keep the flame 
alive, and to remind the rural swains of the existence of a 
Republic in France. 

Now and then, when I could gain a week's leave of absence, 
I returned to the village, and was received with tolerable polite- 
ness by my uncle, and with a warmer feehng by his daughter. 

I won't describe to you the progress of our love, or the wrath 
of my uncle Edward, when he discovered that it still continued. 
He swore and he stormed ; he locked JMary into her chamber, 
and vowed that he woukl withdraw the allowance he made me, 
if ever I ventured near her. His daughter, he said, should never 
marry a hopeless, penniless subaltern ; and Mary declared she 
would not marry without his consent. What had I to do? — 



THE STORY OF MARl A.NCEL. 131 

to despair and to leave her. As for m}^ poor uncle Jacob, he 
had no counsel to give me, and, indeed, no spirit left : his 
Uttle church was turned into a stable, his surplice torn off his 
shoulders, and he was onl}^ too luckj' in keeping his head on 
tliem. A bright thought struck him : suppose you were to ask 
the advice of m}^ old friend Schneider regarding this marriage? 
he has ever been your friend, and ma}' help you now as be- 
fore. 

(Here the Captain paused a Httle.) You may fancy (con- 
tinued he) that it was droll advice of a reverend gentleman 
like uncle Jacob to counsel me in this manner, and to bid me 
make friends with such a murderous cut-throat as Schneider ; 
but we thought nothing of it in those days ; guillotining was as 
common as dancing, and a man was only thought the better 
patriot the more severe he might be. I departed forthwith to 
Strasburg, and requested the vote and interest of the Citizen 
President of the Committee of Public Safety. 

He heard me with a great deal of attention. I described 
to him most minutely the circumstance, expatiated upon the 
charms of mj' dedr Mary, and painted her to him from head to 
foot. Her golden hair and her bright blushing cheeks, her 
slim waist and her tripping tiny feet ; and furthermore, I added 
that she possessed a fortune which ought, by rights, to be 
mine, but for the miserly old father, "Curse him for an 
aristocrat ! " concluded I, in my wrath. 

As I had been discoursing about Mary's charms Schneider 
listened with much complacency and attention : when I spoke 
about her fortune, his interest redoubled ; and when I called 
her father an aristocrat, the worthy ex- Jesuit gave a grin of 
satisfaction, which was really quite terrible. O fool that I was 
to trust him so far ! 

The very same evening an officer waited upon me with the 
following note from Saint Just : — 

" Strasburg, Fifth year of the Republic, one and 
indivisible, 11 Ventose. 
" The citizen Pierre Ancel is to leave Strasburg within two hours, and 
to carry the enclosed despatches to the President of the Committee of 
Pubhc Safety at Paris. The necessary leave of absence from his military 
duties has been provided. Instant punishment will follow the slightest 
delay on the road. Salut et Fraternite." 

There was no choice but obedience, and off I sped on my 
weary way to the capital. 



132 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

As I was riding out of the Paris gate I met an equipage 
which I knew to be that of Schneider. The ruffian smiled at 
me as I passed, and wished me a hon voyage. Behind his 
chariot came a curious machine, or cart ; a great basket, three 
stout poles, and several planks, all painted red, were l.ying in 
this vehicle, on the top of which was seated my friend with the 
big cockade. It was the portable guillotine which Schneider 
always carried with him on his travels. The bourreau was 
reading "The Sorrows of Werter," and looked as sentimental 
as usual. 

I will not speak of my voyage in order to relate to 3'ou 
Schneider's. My storj^ had awakened the wretch's curiosity 
and avarice, and he was determined that such a prize as I had 
shown ni}' cousin to be should fall into no hands but his own. 
No sooner, in fact, had I quitted his room than he procured 
the order for my absence, and was on the way to Steinbach as 
I met him. 

The journey is not a very long one ; and on the next da}' 
my uncle Jacob was surprised b}- receiving a message that the 
citizen Schneider was in the village, and was coming to greet 
his old friend. Old Jacob was in an ecstasy, for he longed to 
see his college acquaintance, and he hoped also that Schneider 
had come into that part of the country upon the marriage- 
business of 3'our humble servant. Of course Mary was sum- 
moned to give her best dinner, and wear her best frock ; and 
her father made read}' to receive the new State dignitary. 

Schneider's carriage speedily rolled into the court-yard, and 
Schneider's cart followed, as a matter of course. The ex-priest 
only entered the house ; his companion remaining with the 
horses to dine in private. Here was a most touching meeting 
between him and Jacob. They talked over their old college 
pranks and successes ; they capped Greek verses, and quoted 
ancient epigrams upon their tutors, who had been dead since 
the Seven Years' War. Mary declared it was quite touching to 
listen to the merry friendly talk of these two old gentlemen. 

After the conversation had continued for a time in this 
strain, Schneider drew up all of a sudden, and said quietly, 
that he had come on particular and unpleasant business — 
hinting about troublesome times, spies, evil reports, and so 
forth. Then he called uncle Edward aside, and had with him a 
long and earnest conversation : so Jacob went out and talked 
with Schneider's friend ; they speedily became very intimate, 
for the ruffian detailed all the circumstances of his interview 
with me. When he returned into the house, some time after 



THE STORY OF MARY AJ^CEL. 133 

this pleasing colloquy, he found the tone of the society strangely 
altered. Edward Ancel, pale as a sheet, trembling, and crying 
for mercy ; poor Mar}^ weeping ; and Schneider pacing ener- 
geticali}^ about the apartment, raging about the rights of 
man, the punishment of traitors, and the one and indivisible 
Republic. 

"Jacob," he said, as my uncle entered the room, " I was 
willing, for the sake of our old friendship, to forget the crimes 
of your brother. He is a known and dangerous aristocrat ; he 
holds communications with the enemy on the frontier ; he is a 
possessor of great and ill-gotten wealth, of which he has plun- 
dered the Republic. Do you know," said he, turning to Edward 
Ancel, " where the least of these crimes, or the mere suspicion 
of them, would lead you ? " 

Poor Edward sat trembling in his chair, and answered not a 
word. He knew full well how quickl}", in this dreadful time, 
punishment followed suspicion ; and, though guiltless of all 
treason with the enem}^, perhaps he was aware that, in certain 
contracts with the Government, he had taken to himself a more 
than patriotic share of profit. 

" Do you know," resumed Schneider, in a voice of thunder, 
' ' for what purpose I came hither, and by whom I am accom- 
panied ? I am the administrator of the justice of the Republic. 
The life of yourself and 3'our famity is in my hands : 3'onder 
man, who follows me, is the executor of the law ; he has rid 
the nation of hundreds of wretches like 3'ourself. A single 
word from me, and your doom is sealed without hope, and your 
last hour is come. Ho! Gregoire ! " shouted he; "is all 
ready ? " 

Gregoire replied from the court, " I can put up the machine 
in half an hour. Shall I go down to the village and call the 
troops and the law people ? " 

"Do you hear him?" said Schneider. "The guillotine 
is in the court-yard ; j^our name is on my list, and I have 
witnesses to prove your crime. Have you a word in 3'our 
defence ? " 

Not a word came ; the old gentlema,n was dumb ; but his 
daughter, who did not give way to his terror," spoke for him. 

" You cannot, sir," said she, " although 3-ou say it, feel 
that my father is guilty ; 3'ou would not have entered our house 
thus alone if 3'ou had thought it. Y^ou threaten him in this 
manner because 3'Ou have something to ask and to gain from 
us : what is it, citizen ? — tell us how much you value our lives, 
and what sum we are to pay for our ransom ? " 



134 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

" Sum ! " said uncle Jacob ; " he does not want money of 
us : m}^ old friend, my college chum, does not come hither to 
drive bargains with anybody belonging to Jacob Ancel ? " 

"Oh, no, sir, no, you can't want money of us," shrieked 
Edward; "we are the poorest people of the village: ruined, 
Monsieur Schneider, ruined in the cause of the Republic." 

" Silence, father," said my brave Mary ; " this man wants 
a price : he comes, with his worthy friend yonder, to frighten 
us, not to kill us. If we die, he cannot touch a sou of our 
money ; it is confiscated to the State. Tell us, sir, what is 
the price of our safety ? " 

Schneider smiled, and bowed with perfect politeness. 

"Mademoiselle Marie," he said, "is perfectly correct in 
her surmise. I do not want the life of this poor drivelling old 
man : mj^ intentions are much more peaceable, be assured. It 
rests entirel}^ with this accomplished young lady (whose spirit 
I like, and whose ready wit I admire), whether the business 
between us shall be a matter of love or death. I humbly offer 
m3^self, citizen Ancel, as a candidate for the hand of your charm- 
ing daughter. Her goodness, her beaut}^, and the large fortune 
which I know you intend to give her, would render her a desir- 
able match for the proudest man in the republic, and, I am 
sure, would make me the happiest." 

" This must be a jest. Monsieur Schneider," said Mary, 
trembling, and turning deadly pale : " 3'ou cannot mean this ; 
3'ou do not know me : you never heard of me until to-day." 

" Pardon me, belle dame," replied he ; " your cousin Pierre 
has often talked to me of your virtues ; indeed, it was by his 
special suggestion that I made the visit." 

"It is false ! — it is a base and cowardly lie ! " exclaimed 
she (for the young lady's courage was up), — "Pierre never 
could have forgotten himself and me so as to offer me to one 
like you. You come here with a lie on your lips -— a lie against 
my father, to swear his life awa}^, against my dear cousin's 
honor and love. It is useless now to deny it: father, I love 
Pierre Ancel ; I will marr}^ no other but him — no, though our 
last penu}^ were paid to this man as the price of our freedom." 

Schneider's only replj^ to this was a call to his friend Gre- 
goire. 

' ' Send down to the village for the maire and some gen- 
darmes ; and tell 3^our people to make ready." 

" Shall I put the machine up? " shouted he of the sentimental 
turn. 

" You hear him," said Schneider ; " Marie Ancel, you may 



THE STORY OF MARY A:N'CEL. 135 

decide the fate of your father. I shall return in a few hours," 
concluded he, " and will then beg to know your decision." 

The advocate of the rights of man then left the apartment, 
and left the family, as you may imagine, in no very pleasant 
mood. 

Old uncle Jacob, during the few minutes which had elapsed 
in the enactment of this strange scene, sat staring wildly at 
Schneider, and holding Mary on his knees: the poor Uttle 
thing had fled to him for protection, and not to her father, 
vfho was kneeling almost senseless at the window, gazing at 
the executioner and his hideous preparations. The instinct of 
the poor girl had not failed her : she knew that Jacob was her 
only protector, if not of her life — heaven bless him ! — of her 
honor. "Indeed," the old man said, in a stout voice, "this 
must never be, m}^ dearest child— you must not marry this 
man. If it be the will of Providence that we fall, we shall 
have at least the thought to console us that we die innocent. 
Any man in France at a time like this, would be a coward and 
traitor if he feared to meet the fate of the thousand brave and 
good who have preceded us." 

"Who speaks of dying?" said Edward. "You, Brother 
Jacob ? — you would not lay that poor girl's head on the scaf- 
fold, or mine, your dear brother's. You will not let us die, 
Mary ; you vn\l not, for a small sacrifice, bring your poor old 
father into danger ? " 

Mary made no answer. "Perhaps, she said, "there is 
time for escape : he is to be here but in two hours ; in two 
hours we may be safe, in concealment, or on the frontier." 
And she rushed to the door of the chamber, as if she would 
have instantly made the attempt : two gendarmes were at the 
door. " We have orders, Mademoiselle," they said, " to allow 
no one to leave this apartment until the return of the citizen 
Schneider." 

Alas ! all hope of escape was impossible. Mary became 
quite silent for a while ; she would not speak to uncle Jacob ; 
and, in reply to her father's eager questions, she only replied, 
coldly, that she would answer Schneider when he arrived. 

The two dreadful hours passed away only too quickly ; and, 
punctual to his appointment, the ex-monk appeared. Directly 
he entered, Mary advanced to him, and said, calmly, — 

" Sir, I could not deceive you if I said that I freely accepted 
the offer which you have made me. I will be your v/ife ; but I 
tell you that I love another ; and that it is only to save the 
lives of those two old men that I yield my person up to you.'' 



136 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Schneider bowed, and said, — 

" It is bravety spoken. I like your candor — your beauty. 
As for the love, excuse me for saying that is a matter of total 
indifference. I have- no doubt, however, that it will come as 
soon as your feelings in favor of the young gentleman, 3^our 
cousin, have lost their present fervor. That engaging young 
man has, at present, another mistress — Glor3'. He occupies, 
I believe, the distinguished post of corporal in a regiment 
which is about to march to — Perpignan, I beheve." 

It was, in fact. Monsieur Schneider's polite intention to 
banish me as far as possible from the place of my birth ; and 
he had, accordingl}', selected the Spanish frontier as the spot 
where I was to display mj^ future military talents. 

Mary gave no answer to this sneer : she seemed perfectly 
resigned and calm : she only 'said, — 

" I must make, however, some conditions regarding our 
proposed marriage, which a gentleman of Monsieur Schneider's 
gallantry cannot refuse." 

"Pray command me," replied the husband elect. "Fair 
lad}'', you know I am j'our slave." 

" You occupy a distinguished political rank, citizen repre- 
sentative," said she; "and we in our village are likewise 
known and beloved. I should be ashamed, I confess, to wed 
3^ou here ; for our people would wonder at the sudden marriage, 
and impl}^ that it was onl}^ b}^ compulsion that I gave 3'ou mj^ 
hand. Let us, then, perform this ceremony at Strasburg, 
before the public authorities of the city, with the state and 
solemnity which befits the marriage of one of the chief men 
of the Republic." 

" Be it so, madam," he answered, and gallantly proceeded to 
embrace his bride. 

Mary did not shrink from this ruffian's kiss ; nor did she 
reply when poor old Jacob, who sat sobbing in a corner, burst 
out, and said, — 

" O Mary, Mary, I did not think this of thee ! " 

" Silence, brother ! " hastily said Edward ; "my good son- 
in-law will pardon j^our ill-humor." 

I believe uncle Edward in his heart was pleased at the no- 
tion of the marriage ; he only cared for mone}' and rank, and 
was little scrupulous as to the means of obtaining them. 

The matter then was finally arranged ; and presently, after 
Schneider had transacted the affairs which brought him into 
that part of the country, the happy bridal party set forward for 
Strasburg. Uncles Jacob and Edward occupied the back seat 



THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 137 

of the old family carriage, and the young bride and bridegroom 
(he was nearl}- Jacob's age) were seated majestically in front. 
Mary has often since talked to me of this dreadful journey. 
She said she wondered at the scrupulous politeness of Schneider 
during the route ; na,y, that at another period she could have 
listened to and admired the singular talent of this man, his 
great learning, his fancy, and wit ; but her mind was bent 
upon other things, and the poor girl firmly thought that her 
last day was come. 

In the meantime, by a blessed chance, I had not ridden 
three leagues from Strasburg, when the officer of a passing 
troop of a cavahy regiment, looking at the beast on which I 
was mounted, was pleased to take a fanc}' to it, and ordered 
me, in an authoritative tone, to descend, and to give up m}' 
steed for the benefit of the Republic. I represented to him, 
in vain, that I was a soldier, like himself, and the bearer of 
despatclies to Paris. "Fool!" he said; " do j'ou think they 
would send despatches b}^ a man who can ride at best but ten 
leagues a day ? " And the honest soldier was so wroth at my 
supposed duplicity, that he not only confiscated m}' horse, but 
my saddle, and the little portmanteau which contained the chief 
part of m}- worldlj' goods and treasure. I had nothing for it 
but to dismount, and take my wa}^ on foot back again to Stras- 
burg. I arrived there in the evening, determining the next 
morning to make m}^ case known to tlie citizen St. Just ; and 
though I made my entry without a sou, I don't know what 
secret exaltation I felt at again being able to return. 

The" ante-chamber of such a great man as St. Just was, in 
those days, too crowded for an unprotected boy to obtain an 
earl}" audience ; two days passed before I could obtain a sight 
of the friend of Robespierre. On the third day, as I was still 
waiting for the interview, I heard a great bustle in the court- 
yard of the house, and looked out with many others at the 
spectacle. 

A number of men and women, singing epithalamiums, and 
dressed in some absurd imitation of Roman costume, a troop 
of soldiers and gendarmerie, and an immense crowd of the 
hadauds of Strasburg, were surrounding a carriage which then 
entered the court of the mayoralt}'. In this carriage, great 
God ! I saw my dear Mary, and Schneider by her side. The 
truth instantly came upon me : the reason for Schneider's keen 
inquiries and my abrupt dismissal ; but I could not believe 
that Mary was false to me. I had only to look in her face, 



138 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

white and rigid as marble, to see that this iJi'oposed marriage 
was not with her consent. 

I fell back in the crowd as the procession entered the great 
room in which 1 was, and hid my face in my hands : I could 
not look upon her as the wife of another, — upon her so long 
loved and truly — the saint of my childhood — the pride and 
hope of my youth — torn from me for ever, and delivered over 
to the unholy arms of the murderer who stood before me. 

The door of St. Just's private apartment opened, and he 
took his seat at the table of mayoralty just as Schneider and 
his cortege arrived before it. 

Schneider then said that he came in before the authorities 
of the Republic to espouse the citoyenne Marie Ancel. 

'' Is she a minor?" asked St. Just. 

" She is a minor, but her father is here to give her away." 

" I am here," said uncle Edward, coming eagerly forward 
and bowing. " Edward Ancel, so please you, citizen repre- 
sentative. The worthy citizen Schneider has done me the 
honor of marrying into my family." 

" But my father has not told j^ou the terms of the marriage," 
said Mary, interrupting him, in a loud, clear voice. 

Here Schneider seized her hand, and endeavored to prevent 
her from speaking. Her father turned pale, and cried, " Stop, 
Mary, stop ! For heaven's sake, remember your poor old 
father's danger ! " 

" Sir, may I speak?" 

" Let the young woman speak," said St. Just, " if shjp have 
a desire to talk." He did not suspect what would be the pur- 
port of her story. 

"Sir," she said, "two days since the citizen Schneider 
entered for the first time our house ; and you will fancy that it 
must be a love of very sudden growth which has brought either 
him or me before you to-day. He had heard from a person who 
is now unhappily not present, of my name and of the wealth 
which my family was said to possess ; and hence arose this mad 
design concerning me. He came into our village with supreme 
power, an executioner at his heels, and the soldiery and author- 
ities of the district entirely' under his orders. He threatened 
my father with death if he refused to give up his daughter ; and 
I, who knew that there was no chance of escape, except here 
before you, consented to become his wife. My father I know 
to be innocent, for all his transactions with the State have 
passed through my hands. Citizen representative, I demand 
to be freed from this marriage ; and I charge Schneider as a 



THE STORY OF MARY ANCEL. 139 

traitor to the Republic, as a man who would have murdered 
an innocent citizen for the sake of private gain." 

During the deliver}' of this little speech, uncle Jacob had 
been sobbing and panting like a broken- winded horse ; and 
when Mary had done, he rushed up to her and kissed her, and 
held her tight in his arras. " Bless thee, m}' child ! " he cried, 
" for having had the courage to speak the truth, and shame thy 
old father and me, who dared not say a word." 

"The girl amazes me," said Schneider, with a look of 
astonishment. " I never saw her, it is true, till yesterday ; but 
I used no force : her father gave her to me with his free con- 
sent, and she yielded as gladly. Speak, Edward Ancel, was 
it not so ? " 

" It was, indeed, by my free consent," said Edward, trem- 
bling. 

" For shame, brother ! " cried old Jacob. " Sir, it was b}^ 
Edward's free consent and m}^ niece's ; but the guillotine was 
in the court-yard ! Question Schneider's famulus, the man 
Gregoire, him who reads ' The Sorrows of Werter.' " 

Gregoire stepped forward, and looked hesitating^ at 
Schneider, as he said, " I know not what took place within 
doors ; but I was ordered to put up the scaffold without ; 
and I was told to get soldiers, and let no one leave the 
house." 

"Citizen St. Just," cried Schneider, "you will not allow 
the testimon}^ of a ruffian like this, of a foolish girl, and a mad 
ex-priest, to weigh against the word of one who has done such 
service to the Republic : it is a base conspirac}' to betray me ; 
the whole family is known to favor the interest of tlie emigres.^' 

" And therefore you would marry a member of the famih% 
and allow the others to escape ; you must make a better defence, 
citizen Schneider," said St. Just, sternl}'. 

Here I came forward, and said that, three days since, I had 
received an order to quit Strasburg for Paris immediately after 
a conversation with Schneider, in which I had asked him his aid 
in promoting my marriage with my cousin, Mary Ancel ; that 
he had heard from me full accounts regarding her father's 
wealth ; and that he had abruptly caused my dismissal, in order 
to carr}' on his sclieme against her. 

" You are in the uniform of a regiment of this town ; who 
sent 5'ou from it?" said St. Just. 

I produced the order, signed by himself, and the despatches 
which Schneider had sent me. 

" The signature is mine, but the despatches did not come 



140 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

from m3^ office. Can jou prove in any way your conversation 
with Schneider?" 

"Why," said my sentimental friend Gregoire, "for the 
matter of that, I can answer that the lad was always talking 
about this young woman : he told me the whole story himself, 
and many a good laugh I had with citizen Schneider as we 
talked about it." 

" The charge against Edward Ancel must be examined into," 
said St. Just. "The marriage cannot take place. But if I 
had ratified it, Mary Ancel, what then would have been your 



course 



Mary felt for a moment in her bosom, and said — " jffe 
would have died to-night — / would have stabbed him with this 

dagger.^' * 

The rain was beating down the streets, and yet they were 
thronged ; all the world was hastening to the market-place, 
where the worth}^ Gregoire was about to perform some of the 
pleasant duties of his office. On this occasion, it was not death 
that he was to inflict ; he was only to expose a criminal who 
was to be sent on afterwards to Paris. St. Just had ordered 
that Schneider should stand for six hours in the public place of 
Strasburg, and then be sent on to the capital to be dealt with 
as the authorities might think fit. 

The people followed with execrations the villain to his place 
of punishment ; and Gregoire grinned as he fixed up to the post 
the man whose orders he had obeyed so often — who had de- 
livered over to disgrace and punishment so many who merited 
it not. 

Schneider was left for several hours exposed to the mocker}' 
and insults of the mob ; he was then, according to his sentence, 
marched on to Paris, where it is probable that he would have 
escaped death, but for his own fault. He was left for some 
time in prison, quite unnoticed, perhaps forgotten : day hy day 
fresh victims were carried to the scaffold, and yet the Alsacian 
tribune remained alive ; at last, 'by the mediation of one of his 
friends, a long petition was presented to Eobespierre, stating 
his services and his innocence, and demanding his freedom. 
The repl}^ to this was an order for his instant execution : the 
wretch died in the last days of Robespierre's reign. His com- 
rade, St. Just, followed him, as you know ; but Edward Ancel 

* This reply, and, indeed, the whole of the story, is historical. An 
account, by Charles Nodier, in the Revue de Pat-is, suggested it to the 

writer. 



THE STOiiY OF MAEY ANCEL. 141 

had been released before this, for the action of my brave Mary 
had created a strong feeUng in his favor. 

"And Mary?" said I. 

Here a stout and smiling old lady entered the Captain's little 
room : she was leaning on the arm of a military-looking man 
of some forty years, and followed by a number of noisy, rosy 
children. 

" This is Mary Ancel," said the Captain, " and I am Cap- 
tain Pierre, and yonder is the Colonel, my son ; and 3'ou see us 
here assembled in force, for it is the fete of little Jacob yonder, 
whose brothers and sisters have all come from their schools to 
dance at his birthday." 



BEATRICE MERGER. 



Beatrice Merger, whose name might figure at the head of 
one of Mr. Colburn's poUtest romances — so smooth and aris- 
tocratic does it sound — is no heroine, except of her own 
simple history ; she is not a fashionable French Countess, nor 
even a victim of the Revolution. 

She is a stout, sturd}^ girl of two-nnd-twent}^, with a face 
beaming with good nature, and marked dreadfull}^ b}' small- 
pox ; and a pair of black eyes, which might have done some 
execution had the}^ been placed in a smoother face. Beatrice's 
station in society is not very exalted ; she is a servant of all- 
work : she will dress your wife, your dinner, your children ; she 
does beefsteaks and plain work ; she makes beds, blacks boots, 
and waits at table ; — such, at least, were the offices which she 
performed in the fashionable establishment of the writer of this 
book : perhaps her history may not inaptly occupy a few pages 
of it. 

"M}^ father died," said Beatrice, "about six .years since. 
and left my poor mother with little else but a small cottage and 
a strip of land, and four children too young to work. It was 
hard enough in my father's time to supply so many httle mouths 
with food ; and how was a poor widowed woman to provide for 
them now, who had neither the strength nor the opportunity for 
labor ? 

"Besides us, to be sure, there was my old aunt; and she 
would have helped us, but she could net, for the old woman is 
bed-ridden; so she did nothing but occupy our best room, and 
grumble from morning till night : heaven knows, poor old soul, 
that she had no great reason to be very happy ; for you know, 



BEATRICE MERGER. 143 

sir, that it frets the temper to be sick ; and that it is worse still 
to be sick and hungry too. 

" At that time, in the country where we lived (in Picard}^ 
not verj' far from Boulogne), times were so bad that the 
best workman could hardlj' find emplo}' ; and when ho did, he 
was happy if he could earn a matter of twelve sous a day. 
Mother, work as she would, could not gain more than six ; and 
it was a hard job, out of this, to put meat into six bellies, and 
clothing on six backs. Old Aunt Bridget would scold, as she 
got her portion of black bread ; and m}' little brothers used to 
cr}' if theirs did not come in time. I, too, used to cr}- when I 
got my share ; for mother kept only a little, little piece for her- 
self, and said that she had dined in the fields, — God pardon 
her for the lie ! and bless her, as I am sure He did ; for, but 
for Him, no working man or woman could subsist upon such a 
wretched morsel as ni}' dear mother took. 

" I was a thin, ragged, barefooted girl, then, and sickl}' and 
weak for want of food ; but I think I felt mother's hunger more 
than m}' own : and many and man}' a bitter night I laj' awake, 
crying, and praying to God to give me means of working for 
myself and aiding her. And he has, indeed, been good to me," 
said pious Beatrice, " for He has given me all this ! 

" Well, time rolled on, and matters grew vforse than ever : 
winter came, and was colder to us than anj^ other winter, for 
our clothes were thinner and more torn ; mother sometimes 
could find no work, for the fields in which she labored were 
hidden under the snow ; so that when we wanted them most we 
had them least — warmth, work, or food. 

" I knew that, do what I would, mother would never let me 
leave her, because I looked to my little brothers and my old 
cripple of an ainit ; but still, bread was better for us than all my 
service ; and when I left them the six would have a slice more ; 
so I determined to bid good-by to nobody, but to go away, and 
look for work elsewhere. One Sunday, Vhen mother and the 
little ones were at church, I went in to Aunt Bridget, and said, 
'Tell mother, when she comes back, that Beatrice is gone.' 
I spoke quite stoutly, as if I did not care about it. 

' ' ' Gone ! gone where ? ' said she. ' You ain't going to leave 
me alone, you nasty thing ; you ain't going to the village to 
dance, you ragged, barefooted slut : you're all of a piece in 
this house — your mother, your brothers, and you. I know 
you've got meat in the kitchen, and 3'ou only give me black 
bread ; ' and here the old lady began to scream as if her heart 
would break ; but we did not mind it, we were so used to it. 



144 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

" ' Annt,' said I, ' I'm going, and took this very opportunity 
because you ivere alone : tell mother I am too old now to eat 
her bread, and do no work for it : I am going, please God, 
where work and bread can be found : ' and so I kissed her : she 
was so astonished that she could not move or speak ; and I 
walked awa}^ through the old room, and the little garden, God 
knows whither ! 

" I heard the old woman screaming after me, but I did not 
stop nor turn round. I don't think I could, for my heart was 
very full ; and if I had gone back again, I should never have 
had the courage to go away. So I walked a long, long way, 
until night fell ; and I thought of poor mother coming home 
from mass, and not finding me ; and little Pierre shouting out, 
in his clear voice, for Beatrice to bring him his supper. I think 
I should like to have died that night, and I thought I should 
too ; for when I was obliged to throw myself on the cold, 
hard ground, my feet were too torn and wear}^ to bear me any 
further. 

"Just then the moon got up; and do you know I felt a 
comfort in looking at it, for I knew it was shining on our little 
cottage, and it seemed like an old friend's face? A little waj^ 
on, as I saw by the moon, was a village : and I saw, too, that 
a man was coming towards me ; he must have heard me crjdng, 
I suppose. 

' ' Was not God good to me ? This man was a farmer, who 
had need of a girl in his house ; he made me tell him why I was 
alone, and I told him the same story I have told 3'ou, and he 
believed me and took me home. I had walked six long leagues 
from our village that day, asking everywhere for work in vain ; 
and here, at bedtime, I found a bed and a supper ! 

" Here I lived very well for some months ; m}^ master was 
very good and kind to me ; but, unluckih^, too poor to give me 
any wages ; so that I could save nothing to send to m}' poor 
mother. M}^ mistress used to scold ; but I was used to that at 
home, from Aunt Bridget : and she beat me sometimes, but I 
did not mind it ; for your hardy country girl is not like j^our 
tender town lasses, who cr}^ if a pin pricks them, and give 
warning to their mistresses at the first hard word. The only 
drawback to my comfort was, that T had no news of my mother ; 
I could not write to her, nor could she have read m}^ letter, if 
I had ; so there I was, at only six leagues' distance from home, 
as far off as if I had been to Paris or to 'Merica. 

" However, in a few months I grew so listless and homesick, 
that my mistress said she would keep me no longer ; and though 



BEATRICE MERGER. 145 

J went away as poor as I came, I was still too glad to go back 
to the old village again, and see dear mother, if it were but for 
a day. I knew she would share her crust with me, as she had 
done for so long a time before ; and hoped that, now, as I was 
taller and stronger, I might find work more easily in the neigh- 
borhood. 

' ' You may fancy what a fete it was when I came back ; 
though I'm sure we cried as much as if it had been a funeral. 
Mother got into a fit, which frightened us all ; and as for Aunt 
Bridget, she skreeled awa}^ for hours together, and did not scold 
for two days at least. Little Pierre offered me the whole of his 
supper ; poor little man ! his slice of bread was no bigger than 
before I went awa}'. 

"Well, I got a Uttle work here and a little there ; but still 
I was a burden at home rather than a bread-winner ; and, at 
the closing-in of the winter, was very glad to hear of a place 
at two leagues' distance, w^here work, they said, was to be had. 
Off I set, one morning, to find it, but missed my way, somehow, 
until it was night-time before I arrived. Night-time and snow 
again ; it seemed as if all my journeys were to be made in this 
bitter weather. 

" When I came to the farmer's door, his house was shut up, 
and his people all a-bed ; I knocked for a long while in vain ; 
at last he made his appeararfce at a window up stairs, and seemed 
so frightened, and looked so angry that I suppose he took mc 
for a thief. I told him how I had come for work. ' Who comes 
for work at such an hour? ' said he. ' Go home, you impudent 
baggage, and do not disturb honest people out of their sleep.' 
He banged the window to ; and so I was left alone to shift for 
myself as I might. There was no shed, no cow-house, where I 
could find a bed ; so I got under a cart, on some straw ; it was 
no ver}' warm berth. I could not sleep for the cold : and 
the hours passed so slowly, that it seemed as if I had been 
there a week instead of a night ; but still it was not so bad 
as the first night when I left home, and when the good farmer 
found me. 

"In the morning, before it was light, the farmer's people 
came out, and saw me crouching under the cart : thej^ told me 
to get up ; but I was so cold that I could not : at last the man 
himself came, and recognized me as the girl who had disturbed 
him the night before. When he heard my name, and the pur- 
pose for which I came, this good man took me into the house, 
and put me into one of the beds out of which his sons had just 
got ; and, if I was cold before, you may be sure I was warm and 



146 THE TAHiS SKETCH BOOK. 

comfortable now ! such a bed as this I had never slept in, nor 
ever did I have such good milk-soup as he gave me out of his 
own breakfast. Well, he agreed to hire me ; and what do 3-ou 
think he gave me ? — six sous a day ! and let me sleep in the 
cow-house besides : you may fancy how happy I was now, at the 
prospect of earning so much money. 

" There was an old woman among the laborers who used to 
sell us soup : I got a cupful ever3' day for a half-pennj^, with a 
bit of bread in it ; and might eat as much beet-root besides as 
I liked ; not a ver}^ wholesome meal, to be sure, but God took 
care thnt it should not disagree with me. 

" So, ever}^ Saturday, when work was over, I had thirty 
sous to carry home to mother ; and tired though I was, I 
walked merrily the two leagues to our village, to see her again. 
On the road there was a great wood to pass through, and this 
frightened me ; for if a thief should come and rob me of my 
whole week's earnings, what could a poor lone girl do to help 
herself? But I found a remed}' for this too, and no thieves 
ever came near me ; I used to begin sa3'ing my pra^-ers as I 
entered the forest, and never stopped until I was safe at home ; 
and safe I always ariived, with my thirty sous in mj- pocket. 
Ah ! 3'ou may be sure, Sunday was a merr}^ day for us all." 

This is the whole of Beatrice's history which is worthy of 
publication ; the rest of it only relates to her arrival in Paris, 
and the various masters and mistresses whom she there had the 
honor to serve. As soon as she enters the capital the romance 
disappears, and the poor girl's sufferings and privations luckilj^ 
vanish with it. Beatrice has got now warm gowns, and stout 
shoes, and plenty of good food. She has had her little brother 
from Picardy ; clothed, fed, and educated him : that 3'oung 
gentleman is now a carpenter, and an honor to his profession. 
Madame Merger is in easy circumstances, and receives, yearlj^ 
fift}' francs from her daughter. To crown all. Mademoiselle 
Beatrice herself is a funded proprietor, and consulted the writer 
of this biography as to the best method of laying out a capital 
of two hundred francs, which is the present amount of her for- 
tune. 

God bless her ! she is richer than his Grace the Duke of 
Devonshire ; and, I dare say, has, in her humble walk, been 
more virtuous and more happy than all the dukes in the realm. 

It is, indeed, for the benefit of dukes and such great peo- 
ple (who, I make no doubt, have long since ordered copies of 
these Sketches) , that poor little Beatrice's story has been in- 



BEATRICE MERGER. 147 

dited. Certain it is, that the young woman would never have 
been immortahzed in tliis wa}', but for the good which her bet- 
ters ma}' derive from her example. If 3-our ladyship will but 
reflect a little, after boasting of the sums which you spend in 
charity ; the beef and blankets which you dole out at Christ- 
mas ; the poonah-painting which 3'ou execute for fanc}' fairs ; 
the long, long sermons which you listen to at St. George's, 
the whole year through ; — your lad3'ship, I say, will allow that, 
although perfectly meritorious in your line, as a patroness of 
the Church of England, of Almack's, and of the Lying-in As}^- 
lum, yours is but a paltry sphere of virtue, a pitiful attempt 
at benevolence, and that this honest servant-girl puts you to 
shame I And 3'ou, my Lord Bishop : do you, out of 3'our six 
sous a da}', give away five to support j'our flock and famil}'? 
Would 30U drop a single coach-horse (I do not sa}', a dinner^ 
for such a notion is monstrous, in one of your lordship's degree), 
to feed any one of the starving children of your lordship's 
mother — the Church ? 

I pause for a reply. His lordship took too much turtle and 
cold punch for dinner yesterday, and cannot speak just now : 
but we have, by this ingenious question, silenced him altogether : 
let the w^orld wag as it will, and poor Christians and curates 
starve as they may, my lord's footmen must have their new 
liveries, and his horses their four feeds a day. 

. % 

When we recollect his speech about the Catholics — when 
we remember his last charity sermon, — but I say nothing. 
Here is a poor benighted superstitious creature, worshipping 
images, without a rag to her tail, who has as much faith, and 
humility, and charity as all the reverend bench. 

This angel is without a place ; and for this reason (besides 
the pleasure of composing the above slap at episcopacy) — I 
have indited her history. If the Bishop is going to Paris, and 
wants a good honest maid-of-all-work, he can have her, I have 
no doubt ; or if he chooses to give a few pounds to her mother, 
they can be sent to Mr. Titmarsh, at the publisher's. 

Here is Miss Merger's last letter and autograph. The note 
was evidently composed by an Ecrivain public : — 

^^ Madame^ — Ayant apris par ce Monsieur^ que vous vous portiez 
hien^ ainsi que Monsieur^ ayant su aussi que vous parliez de moi dans 
voire lettre cette nouvelle rrCa fait Men plaisir Je projite de V occa- 
sion pour vous /aire passer ce petit billet ou Je voudrais pouvoir 



143 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



m em 
core 



vdoperpouraller vous voir et pour vous dire que Je suis en- 

lrT',1^1- '"'""T ^"Jo^'-'d'^ne pas vous voir aimi que 
ATm^to (i/„.to IS a cat) qui semble m'interroger tour a oTet 
demauder ou vom etes. Je vous envoye aussila note du linoea 
^X^t^^r -^^^-i^ cesser de vous ecrire^ais nZ de 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY IN 
PARIS. 



Fifty years ago there lived at Munich a poor fellow, by 
name Aloys Senefelder, who was in so little repute as an author 
and artist, that printers and engravers refused to publish his 
works at their own charges, and so set him upon some plan for 
doing without their aid. In the first place, Alo3^s invented a 
certain kind of ink, which would resist the action of the acid 
that is usuall}^ employed by engravers, and with this he made 
his experiments upon copper-plates, as long as he could afford 
to purchase them. He found that to write upon the plates 
backwards, after the manner of engravers, required much skill 
and man}' trials ; and he thought that, were he to practise upon 
any other poUshed surface — a smooth stone, for instance, the 
least costly article imaginable — he might spare the expense of 
the copper until he had sufficient skill to use it. 

One day, it is said, that Aloys was called upon to write — 
rather a humble composition for an author and artist — a wash- 
ing-bill. He had no paper at hand, and so he wrote out the 
bill with some of his newly-invented ink upon one of his Kel- 
heim stones. Some time afterwards he thought he would try 
and take an impression of his washing-bill : he did, and suc- 
ceeded. Such is the story, which the reader most likel}' knows 
very well ; and having alluded to the origin of the art, we shall 
not follow the stream through its windings and enlargement 
after it issued from the little parent rock, or fill our pages with 
the rest of the pedigree. Senefelder invented Lithography. 
His invention has not made so much noise and larum in the 
world as some others, which have an origin quite as humble 
and unromantic ; but it is one to which we owe no small profit, 
and a great deal of pleasure ; and, as such, we are bound to 



150 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

speak of it with all gratitude and respect. The schoolmaster, 
who is now abroad, has taught us, in our j^outh, how tho culti- 
vation of art " emollit mores nee sinit esse" — (it is neediess to 
finish the quotation) ; and Lithograph}^ has been, to our think- 
ing, the ver}^ best allj^ that art ever had ; the best friend of the 
artist, allowing him to produce rapidl}^ multiplied and authentic 
copies of his own works (without trusting to the tedious and 
expensive assistance of the engraver) ; and the best friend to 
the people likewise, who have means of purchasing these cheap 
and beautiful productions, and thus having their ideas " molli- 
fied" and tlieir manners " feros" no more. 

With ourselves, among whom mone}'' is plenty, enterprise 
so great, and everj'thing matter of commercial speculation. 
Lithography has not been so much practised as wood or steel 
engraving ; which, by the aid of great original capital and 
spread of sale, are able more than to compete with the art of 
drawing on stone. The two former ma}' be called art done by 
machinery. We confess to a prejudice in favor of the honest 
work of hand, in matters of art, and prefer the rough workman- 
ship of the painter to the smooth copies of his performances 
which are produced, for the most part, on the wood-block or 
the steel-plate. 

The theory will possibly be objected to by many of our 
readers : the best proof in its favor, we think, is, that the state 
of art amongst the people in France and Germany, where pub- 
lishers are not so wealthy or enterprising as with us,* and 
where Lithography is more practised, is infinitely higher than 
in England, and the appreciation more correct. As draughts- 
men, the French and German painters are incomparably superior 
to our own ; and with art, as with any other commodity, the 
demand will be found pretty equal to the supply : with us, the 
general demand is for neatness, prettiness, and what is called 
effect in pictures, and these can be rendered completely, nay, 
improved, by the engraver's conventional manner of copying 
the artist's performanc.'es. But to copy fine expression and fine 
drawing, the engraver himself must be a fine artist ; and let 
anybody examine the host of picture-books which appear every 
Christmas, and say whether, for the most part, painters or 
engravers possess any artistic merit? We boast, nevertheless, 
of some of the best engravers and painters in Europe. Here, 

* These countries are, to be sure, inundated with the productions of 
our market, in the shape of Byron Beauties, reprints from the "Keep- 
sakes," "Books of Beauty," and such trash; but these are only of late 
years, and their original schools of art are still flourishing. 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 151 

again, the supply is accounted for by the demand ; our highest 
class is richer than any other aristocrac}^, quite as well in- 
structed, and can judge and pay for fine pictures and engravings. 
But these costl}- productions are for the few, and not for the 
many, who have not yet certainly arrived at properly appre- 
ciating fine art. 

Take the standard ' ' Album " for instance — that unfortunate 
collection of deformed Zuleikas and Medoras (from the ' ' Byron 
Beauties"), the Flowers, Gems, Souvenirs, Caskets of Loveli- 
ness, Beauty, as they ma^- be called ; glaring caricatures of 
flowers, singly, in groups, in flower-pots, or with hideous 
deformed little Cupids sporting among them ; of what are 
called '^ mezzotinto," pencil-drawings, " poonah-paintings," and 
what not. " The Album " is to be found invariably upon the 
round rosewood brass-inlaid drawing-room table of the middle 
classes, and with a couple of "Annuals" besides, which flank 
it on the same table, represents the art of the house ; perhaps 
there is a portrait of the master of the house in the dining- 
room, grim-glancing from above the mantel-piece ; and of the 
mistress over the piano up stairs ; add to these some odious 
miniatures of the sons and daughters, on each side of the chim- 
ney-glass ; and here, commonly (we appeal to the reader if this 
is an overcharged picture), the collection ends. The family 
goes to the Exhibition once a 3'ear, to the National Gallerj^ 
once in ten years : to the former place they have an inducement 
to go ; there are their own portraits, or the portraits of their 
friends, or the portraits of public characters ; and 3'ou will see 
them infallibly wondering over No. 2645 in the catalogue, rep- 
resenting " The Portrait of a Lady," or of the " First Mayor 
of Little Pedlington since the passing of the Reform Bill ; " or 
else bustling and squeezing among the miniatures, where lies 
the chief attraction of the Gallery. England has produced, 
owing to the effects of this class of admirers of art, two admi- 
rable, and five hundred very clever, portrait painters. How 
msiny artists? Let the reader count upon his five fingers, and 
see if, living at the present moment, he can name one for each. 

If, from this examination of our own worthy middle classes, 
we look to the same class in France, what a difference do we 
find ! Humble cafes in country towns have their walls covered 
with pleasing picture papers, representing " Les Gloires de 
VArmee Frangaise'' the "Seasons," the "Four Quarters of 
the World," "Cupid and Psyche," or some other allegory, 
landscape or history, rudely painted, as papers for walls usu- 
ally are ; but the figures are all tolerably well drawn ; and the 



152 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

common taste, which has caused a demand for such things, is 
undeniable. In Paris, the manner in which the cafes and 
houses of the restaurateurs are ornamented, is, of course, a 
thousand times licher, and nothing can be more beautiful, or 
more exquisiteh' finished and correct, than the designs which 
adorn man}^ of them. We are not prepared to sa}" what sums 
were expended upon the painting of " Yery's "or " Vefour's," 
of the " Salle Musard," or of numberless other places of public 
resort in the capital. There is man}' a shop-keeper whose sign 
is a ver3' tolerable picture ; and often have we stopped to admire 
(the reader will give us credit for having remained outside) the 
excellent workmanship of the grapes and vine-leaves over the 
door of some very humble, dirty, inodorous shop of a marchand 
de vin. 

These, however, serve only to educate the public taste, and 
are ornaments for the most part much too costly for the people. 
But the same love of ornament which is shown in their public 
places of resort, appears in their houses likewise ; and ever}^ 
one of our readers who has lived in Paris, in an}^ lodging, 
magnificent or humble, with an}^ family, however poor, may 
bear witness how profusel}' the walls of his smart salon in the 
English quarter, or of his little room au sixieme in the Pays 
Latin, has been decorated with prints of all kinds. In the first, 
probably, with bad engravings on copper from the bad and 
tawdry pictures of the artists of the time of the Empire ; in the 
latter, with ga}' caricatures of Granville or Monnier : militarj^ 
pieces, such as are dashed oflT b}" Raffet, Charlet, Vernet (one 
can hardl}^ say which of the three designers has tlie greatest 
merit, or the most vigorous hand) ; or clever pictures from the 
crayon of the Deverias, the admirable Roqueplan. or Decamp. 
We have named here, we believe, the principal lithographic 
artists in Paris ; and those — as doubtless there are man}' — 
of our readers who have looked over Monsieur Aubert's port- 
folios, or gazed at that famous caricature-shop window in the 
Rue de Coq, or are even acquainted with the exterior of Mon- 
sieur Delaporte's little emporium in the Burlington Arcade, 
need not be told how excellent the productions of all these 
artists are in their genre. We get in these engravings the 
loisirs of men of genius, not the finikin performances of labored 
mediocrity, as with us : all these artists are good painters, as 
well as good designers ; a design from them is worth a whole 
gross of Books of Beaut}' ; and if we might raise a humble sup- 
plication to the artists in our own countr\' of similar merit — to 
such men as Leslie, MacUse, Herbert, Cattermole, and others — 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 153 

it would be, that they should, after the example of then- French 
brethren and of the English landscape painters, take chalk in 
hand, produce their own copies of their own sketches, and never 
more draw a single " Forsaken One," "Rejected One," "De- 
jected One " at the entreat}^ of an}- publisher or for the pages of 
an^^ Book of Beaut}^ Ro3'alty, or Loveliness whatever. 

Can there be a more pleasing walk in the whole world than 
a stroll through the Gallery of the Louvre on a fete-day ; not to 
look so much at the pictures as at the lookers-on ? Thousands 
of the poorer classes are there : mechanics in their Sunday 
clothes, smiling grisettes, smart dapper soldiers of the- line, 
with bronzed wondering faces, marching together in little 
companies of six or seven, and stopping ever}' now and then 
at Napoleon or Leonidas as they appear in proper vulgar 
heroics in the pictures of David or Gros, The taste of these 
people will hardly be approved by the connoisseur, but they 
have a taste for art. Can the same be said of our lower 
classes, who, if they are inclined to be sociable and amused 
in their holidaj's, have no place of resort but the tap-room or 
tea-garden, and no food for conversation except such as can be 
built upon the politics or the police reports of the last Sunday 
paper? So much has Church and State puritanism done for us 
— so well has it succeeded in materializing and binding down 
to the earth the imagination of men, for which God has made 
another world (which certain statesmen take but too little into 
account) — that fair and beautiful world of heart, in which there 
can be nothing selfish or sordid, of which Dulness has forgotten 
the existence, and which Bigotry has endeavored to shut out 
from sight — 

" On a banni les demons et les fees, 
Le raisonner tristement s'accredite : 
On court, helas ! apres la verite : 
Ah ! croyez moi, I'erreur a son merite ! " 

We are not putting in a plea here for demons and fairies, as 
Voltaire does in the above exquisite lines ; nor about to ex- 
patiate on the beauties of error, for it has none ; but the clank 
of steam-engines, and the shouts of politicians, and the struggle 
for gain or bread, and the loud denunciations of stupid bigots, 
liave wellnigh smothered poor Fancy among us. We boast of 
our science, and vaunt our superior morality. Does the latter 
exist? In spite of all the forms which our policy has invented 
to secure it — in spite of all the preachers, all the meeting- 
houses, and all the legislative enactments — if any person will 



154 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

take upon himself the painful labor of purchasing and perusing 
some of the cheap periodical prints which form the people's 
librar}^ of amusement, and contain what may be presumed to 
be their standard in matters of imagination and fanc}', he will 
see how false the claim is that we bring forward of superior 
moralit}'. The aristocracy who are so eager to maintain, were, 
of course, not the last to feel the annoyance of the legislative 
restrictions on the Sabbath, and eagerly seized upon that happ}' 
invention for dissipating the gloom and ennui ordered by Act 
of Parliament to prevail on that day — the Sunda^^ paper. It 
might be read in a club-room, where the poor could not see 
how their betters ordained one thing for the vulgar, and another 
for themselves ; or in an eas3"-chair, in the stud}^, whither my 
lord retires ever}' Sunda}' for his devotions. It dealt in private 
scandal and ribaldry, only the more piquant for its pretty flims}' 
veil of douhle-entendre. It was a fortune to the publisher, and 
it became a necessary to the reader, which he could not do 
without, any more than without his snuff-box, his opera-box, 
or his chasse after coffee. The delightful novelty could not for 
any time be kept exclusively for the haul ton ; and from my 
lord it descended to his valet or tradesmen, and from Gros- 
venor Square it spread all the town through ; so that now the 
lower classes have their scandal and ribaldry organs, as well as 
their betters (the rogues, the}' will imitate them !) and as their 
tastes are somewhat coarser than my lord's, and their numbers 
a thousand to one, why of course the prints have increased, 
and the profligacy has been diffused in a ratio exactly pro- 
portionable to the demand, until the town is infested with such 
a number of monstrous publications of the kind as would have 
put Abbe Dubois to the blush, or made Louis XV. cry shame. 
Talk of English morality! — the worst licentiousness, in the 
worst period of the French monarch}', scarcely equalled the 
wickedness of this Sabbath-keeping country of ours. 

The reader will be glad, at last, to come to the conclusion 
that we would fain draw from all these descriptions — why does 
this immorality exist? Because the people must be amused, 
and have not been taught how; because the upper classes, 
frightened by stupid cant, or absorbed in material wants, have 
not as yet learned the refinement which only the cultivation of 
art can give ; and when their intellects are uneducated, and 
their tastes are coarse, the tastes and amusements of classes 
still more ignorant must be coarse and vicious likewise, in an 
increased proportion. 

Such discussions and violent attacks upon high and low, 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 155 

Sabbath Bills, politicians, and what not, ma}' appear, perhaps, 
out of place in a few pages which purport onl^' to give an ac- 
count of some French drawings : all we would urge is, that, in 
France, these prints are made because the}' are liked and ap- 
preciated ; with us they are not made, because they are not 
liked and appreciated: and the more is the pity. Nothing 
merely intellectual will be popular among us : we do not love 
beauty for beauty's sake, as Germans ; or wit, for wit's sake, 
as the French : for abstract art we have no appreciation. We 
admire H. B.'s caricatures, because they are the caricatures of 
well-known political characters, not because they are witty ; 
and Boz, because he writes us good palpable stories (if we may 
use such a word to a story) ; and Madame Vestris, because she 
has the most beautifully shaped legs ; — the art of the designer, 
the writer, the actress (each admirable in its way,) is a very 
minor consideration ; each might have ten times the wit, and 
would be quite unsuccessful without their substantial points of 
popular it}'. 

In France such matters are far better managed, and the 
love of art is a thousand times more keen ; and (from this feel- 
ing, surely) how much superiorit}' is there in French society 
over our own ; how much better is social happiness understood ; 
how much more manly equalit}^ is there between Frenchman 
and Frenchman, than between rich and poor in our own 
countr}^, with all our superior wealth, instruction, and political 
fresdoui ! There is, amongst the humblest, a gayety, cheerful- 
ness, politeness, and sobriety, to which, in England, no class 
can show a parallel : and these, be it remembered, are not only 
qualities for holidaj's, but for working-days too, and add to the 
enjoyment of human life as much as good clothes, good beef, or 
good wages. If, to our frc^edom, we could but add a little of 
their happiness! — it is one, after all, of the cheapest com- 
modities in the world, and in the power of every man (with 
means of gaining decent bread) who has the will or the skill 
to use it. 

We are not going to trace the histor}^ of the rise and prog- 
ress of art in France ; our business, at present, is only to 
speak of one branch of ai't in that country- — lithographic de- 
signs, and those chiefly of a humorous character.' A history of 
French caricature was published in Paris, two or three years 
back, illustrated by numerous copies of designs, from the time 
of Henry III. to our own day. We can only speak of this 
work from memor}', having been unable, in London, to procure 
the sight of a cop3^ ; but our impre;3":ion, at the time we saw tiie 



166 THE PARIS SKETCH LOOK. 

collection, was as unfavorable as could possibly be : nothing 
could be more meagre than the wit, or poorer than the execu- 
tion, of the whole set of drawings. Under the Empire, art, as 
may be imagined, was at a very low ebb ; and, aping the Gov- 
ernment of the day, and catering to the national taste and 
vanity, it was a kind of tawdrj' caricature of the sublime ; of 
which the pictures of David and Girodet, and almost the entire 
collection now at the Luxembourg Palace, will give pretty fair 
examples. Swollen, distorted, unnatural, the painting was 
something like the politics of those days ; with force in it, 
nevertheless, and something of grandeur, that will exist in 
spite of taste, and is born of energetic will. A man, disposed 
to write comparisons of characters, might, for instance, find 
some striking analogies between mountebank Murat, with his 
irresistible bravery and horsemanship, who was a kind of mix- 
ture of Duguesclin and Ducrow, and Mountebank David, a 
fierce, powerful painter and genius, whose idea of beauty and 
sublimity seemed to have been gained from the blood}^ melodra- 
mas on the Boulevard. Both, however, were great in their way, 
and were worshipped as gods, in those heathen times of false 
belief and hero-worship. 

As for poor caricature and freedom of the press, they, like 
the rightful princess in a fairy tale, with the merry fantastic 
dwarf, her attendant, were entirely in the power of the giant 
who ruled the land. The Princess Press was so closel}' watched 
and guarded (with some little show, nevertheless, of respect for 
her rank), that she dared not utter a word of her own thoughts ; 
and, for poor Caricature, he was gagged, and put out of the 
way altogether : imprisoned as completely as ever Asmodeus 
was in his phial. 

How the Press and her attendant fared in succeeding reigns, 
is well known ; their condition was little bettered b}' the down- 
fall of Napoleon : with the accession of Charles X. they were 
more oppressed even than before — more than the}' could bear ; 
for so hard were they pressed, that, as one has seen when sail- 
ors are working a capstan, back of a sudden the bars flew, 
knocking to the earth the men who were endeavoring to work 
them. The Revolution came, and up sprung Caricature in 
France ; all sorts of fierce epigrams were discharged at the 
flying monarch, and speedily were prepared, too, for the new 
one. 

About this time there lived at Paris (if our information be 
correct) a certain M. Philipon, an, indiflTerent artist (painting 
was his profession) , a tolerable designer, and an admirable wit. 



CARICATURES AhD LITHOGRAPHY. 157 

M. Philipon designed many caricatures himself, married the 
sister of an eminent publisher of prints (M. Aubert) , and the 
two, gathering about them a body of wits and artists like them- 
selves, set up journals of their own ; — La Caricature, first 
published once a week ; and the Charivari afterwards, a daily 
paper, in which a design also appears daily. 

At first the caricatures inserted in the Charivari were chiefly 
political ; and a most curious contest speedily commenced be- 
tween the State and M. PhiUpon's little army in the Galerie 
Vero-Dodat. Half a dozen poor artists on the one side, and his 
Majesty Louis Philippe, his august family, and the numberless 
placemen and supporters of the monarchy, on the other ; it was 
something like Thersites girding at Ajax, and piercing through 
the folds of the clypei septempHcis with the poisonous shafts of 
his scorn. Our French Thersites was not always an honest 
opponent, it must be confessed ; and many an attack was made 
upon the gigantic enemy, which was cowardl}', false, and ma- 
lignant. But to see the monster writhing under the effects of 
the arrow — to see his uncouth fury in return, and the blind 
blows that he dealt at his diminutive opponent ! — not one of 
these told in a hundred ; when they did tell, it may be imagined 
that they were fierce enough in all conscience, and served almost 
to annihilate the adversary. 

To speak more plainly, and to drop the metaphor of giant 
and dwarf, the King of the French suffered so much, his Min- 
isters were so mercilessly ridiculed, his famih' and his own 
remarkable figure drawn with such odious and grotesque re- 
semblance, in fanciful attitudes, circumstances, and disguises, 
so ludicrously mean, and often so appropriate, that the King 
was obliged to descend into the lists and battle his ridiculous 
enemy in form. Prosecutions, seizures, fines, regiments of 
furious legal officials, were first brought into play against poor 
M. Philipon and his little dauntless troop of malicious artists; 
some few were bribed out of his ranks ; and if they did not, like 
Gilray in England, turn their weapons upon their old friends, 
at least laid down their arms, and would fight no more. The 
bribes, fines, indictments, and loud-tongued avocats du Roi 
made no impression ; Philipon repaired the defeat of a fine by 
some fresh and furious attack upon his great enemy ; if his 
epigrams were more covert, they were no less bitter ; if he was 
beaten a dozen times before a jury, he had eighty or ninety 
victories to show in the same field of battle, and every victory 
and every defeat brought him new sympathy. Every one who 
was at Paris a few years since must recollect the famous 



158 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

^^ poire " which was chalked upon all the walls of the city, and 
which bore so ludicrous a resemblance to Louis Phihppe. The 
poire became an object of prosecution, and M. Philipon ap- 
peared before a jury to answer for the crime of inciting to 
contempt against the King's person, by giving such a ludicrous 
version of his face. Philipon, for defence, produced a sheet of 
paper, and drew a poire^ a real large Burgundy pear : in the 
lower parts round and capacious, narrower near the stalk, and 
crowned with two or three careless leaves. "There was no 
treason in that^'" he said, to the jury ; " could any one object; to 
such a harmless botanical representation ? " Then he drew a 
second pear, exactly' like the former, except that one or two 
lines were scrawled in the midst of it, which bore somehow a 
ludicrous. resemblance to the eyes, nose, and mouth of a cele- 
brated personage ; and, lastl}^, he drew the exact portrait of 
Louis Philippe ; the well-known toupet, the ample whiskers and 
jowl were there, neither extenuated nor set down in malice. 
" Can I help it, gentlemen of the jury, then," said he, " if his 
Djtajesty's face is like a pear? Say 3'ourselves, respectable 
'Citizens, is it, or is it not, like a pear?" Such eloquence could 
not fail of its effect ; the artist was acquitted, and La poire is 
immortal. 

At last came the famous September laws : the freedom of 
the Press, which, from August, 1830, was to be '■'' desormais 
une verite^'^ was calml}' strangled b}^ the Monarch who had 
gained his crown for his supposed championship of it ; b}' his 
Ministers, some of whom had been stout Republicans on paper 
but a few years before ; and by the Chamber, which, such is 
the blessed constitution of French elections, will generally 
vote, unvote, revote in any way the Government wishes. 
With a wondrous union, and happy forgetfulness of principle, 
monarch, ministers, and deputies issued the restriction laws ; 
the Press was sent to prison ; as for the poor dear Caricature, 
it was i'airly murdered. No more political satires appear 
now, and '• through the eye, correct the heart ; " no more poires 
ripen on the walls of the metropolis ; Philipon' s political occu- 
pation is gone. 

But there is alwa^'s food for satire ; and the French carica- 
turists, being no longer allowed to hold up to ridicule and 
reprobation the King and the deputies, have found no lack of 
subjects for the pencil in the ridicules and rascaUties of com- 
mon life. We have said that public decency is greater amongst 
the French than amongst us, which, to some of our readers, 
jnay appear paradoxical ; but we shall not attempt to argue 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 159 

that, in private rogueiy, onr neighbors are not onr equals. 
The proch of Gisqnet, which has appeared lately in the papers, 
shows how deep the demoralization must be, and how a Gov- 
ernment, based itself on dishonesty (a tyranny, that is, under 
the title and fiction of a democracy,) must .practise and admit 
corruption in its own and in its agents' dealings with the 
nation. Accordingly, of cheating contracts, of ministers dab- 
bling with the funds, or extracting underhand profits for the 
granting of unjust privileges and monopolies, — of grasping, 
envious police restrictions, which destro}^ the freedom, and, 
with it, the integrity of commerce, — those who like to examine 
such details maj^ find plenty in French history : the whole 
French finance S3'stem has been a swindle from the days of 
Luvois, or Law, down to the present time. The Government 
swindles the public, and the small traders swindle their cus- 
tomers, on the author! t}' and example of the superior powers. 
Hence the art of roguer}^ under such high patronage, maintains 
in France a noble front of impudence, and a fine audacious 
openness, which it does not wear in our country. 

Among the various characters of roguer}- which the French 
satirists have amused themselves b}^ depicting, there is one of 
which the greatness (using the word in the sense which Mr. 
Jonathan Wild gave to it) so far exceeds that of all others, 
embracing, as it does, all in turn, that it has come to be con- 
sidered the t^'pe of roguery in general ; and now, just as all the 
political squibs were made to come of old from the lips of 
Pasquin, all the reflections on the prevailing cant, knaver}', 
quacker}^ humbug, are put into the mouth of Monsieur Robert 
Macaire. 

A play was written, some twenty j^ears since, called the 
" Auberge des Aclrets," in which the characters of two robbers 
escaped from the galleys were introduced — Robert Macaire, the 
clever rogue above mentioned, and Bertrand, the stupid rogue, 
his friend, accomplice, butt, and scapegoat, on all occasions of 
danger. It is needless to describe the pla}- — a witless per- 
formance enough, of which the joke was Macaire's exaggerated 
style of conversation, a farrago of all sorts of high-flown senti- 
ments such as the French love to indulge in — contrasted with 
his actions, which were philosophicall}^ unscrupulous, and his 
appearance, which was most picturesquel}' sordid. The play 
had been acted, we believe, and forgotten, when a very clever 
actor, M. Frederick Lemaitre, took upon himself the perform- 
ance of the character of Robert Macaire, and looked, spoke, 
and acted it to such admirable perfection, that the whole town 



160 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

rung with applauses of the performance, and the caricaturists 
delighted to cop}^ his singular figure and costume. M. Robert 
Macaire appears in a most picturesque green coat, with a 
variety of rents and patches, a pair of crimson pantaloons orna- 
mented in the same wa}^, enormous wliiskers and ringlets, an 
enormous stock and shirt-frill, as dirty and ragged as stock and 
shirt- frill can be, the relic of a hat ver}^ ga3'l3' cocked over one eye, 
and a patch to take awa}^ somewhat from the brigiitness of the 
other — these are the principal pieces of his costume — a snuff- 
box like a creaking warming-pan, a handkerchief hanging to- 
gether by a miracle, and a switch of about the thickness of a 
man's thigh, formed the ornaments of this exquisite personage. 
He is a compound of Fielding's " Blueskin " and Goldsmith's 
*' Beau Tibbs." He has the dirt and dandyism of the one, with 
the ferocity of the other : sometimes he is made to swindle, but 
where he can get a shilling more, M. Macaire will murder with- 
out scrnple : he performs one and the other act (or any in the 
scale between them) with a similar bland imperturbabilit}', and 
accompanies his actions with such pliilosophical remarks as 
may be expected from a person of his talents, his energies, his 
amiable life and character. 

Bertrand is the simple recipient of Macaire's jokes, and 
makes vicarious atonement for his crimes, acting, in fact, the 
part which pantaloon performs in the pantomime, who is entirely 
under the fatal influence of clown. He is quite as much a rogue 
as that gentleman, but he has not his genius and courage. So, 
in pantomimes, (it may, doubtless, have been remarked by the 
reader,) clown always leaps first, pantaloon following after, 
more clumsily and timidly than his bold and accomplished 
friend and guide. Whatever blows are destined for clown, fall, 
by soijie means of ill-luck, upon the pate of pantaloon : when- 
ever the clown robs, the stolen articles are sure to be found in 
his companion's pocket ; and thus exactly Robert Macaire and 
his companion Bertrand are made to go through the world ; 
both swindlers, but the one more accomplished than the other. 
Both robbing all the world, and Robert robbing his friend, and. 
in the event of danger, leaving him faithfully in the lurch. 
There is, in the two characters, some grotesque good for the 
spectator — a kind of " Beggars' Opera " moral. 

Ever since Robert, with bis dandified rags and airs, his cane 
and snuff-box, and Bertrand with torn surtout and all-absorb- 
ing pocket, have appeared on the stage, they have been popular 
with the Parisians ; and with these two types of clever and 
stupid knavery, M. Philipon and his companion Daumier have 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 161 

created a world of pleasant satire upon all the prevailing abuses 
of the day. 

Almost the first figure that these audacious caricaturists 
dared to depict was a political one : in Macaire's red breeches 
and tattered coat appeared no less a personage than the King 
himself — the old Poire — in a countr}' of humbugs and swindlers 
the facile princeps ; fit to govern, as he is deeper than all the 
rogues in his dominions. Bertrand was opposite to him, and 
having listened with delight and reverence to some tale of 
knavery truly royal, was exclaiming with a look and voice 
expressive of the most intense admiration, " Ah vieux bla- 
GEUR ! va ! " — the word hlague is untranslatable — it means 
French humbug as distinct from all other ; and only those who 
know the value of an epigram in France, an epigram so wonder- 
full}' just, a little word so curiousl}' comprehensive, can fancy 
the kind of rage and rapture with which it was received. It 
was a blow that shook the whole dynast}'. Thersites had there 
given such a wound to Ajax, as Hector in arms could scarcely 
have inflicted : a blow sufficient almost to create the madness 
to which the fabulous hero of Homer and Ovid fell a prey. 

Not long, however, was French caricature allowed to attack 
personages so illustrious : the September laws came, and hence- ' 
forth no more epigrams were launched against politics ; but the 
caricaturists were compelled to confine their satire to subjects 
and characters that had nothing to do with the State. The 
Duke of Orleans was no longer to figure in lithography as the 
fantastic Prince Rosolin ; no longer were multitudes (in chalk) 
to shelter under the enormous shadow of M. d'Argout's nose : 
Marshal Lobau's squirt was hung up in peace, and M. Thiers's 
pigmy figure and round spectacled f^ce were no more to appear 
in print.* Robert Macaire was driven out of the Chambers and 
the Palace — his remarks were a great deal too appropriate and 
too severe for the ears of the great men who congregated in 
those places. 

The Chambers and the Palace were shut to him ; but the 
rogue, driven out of his rogue's paradise, saw " that the world 
was all before him where to choose," and found no lack of 
opportunities for exercising his wit. There was the Bar, with 
its roguish practitioners, rascalh^ attorneys, stupid juries, and 
forsworn judges ; there was the Bourse, with all its gambling, 
swindling, and hoaxing, its cheats and its dupes ; the Medical 

* Almost all the principal public men had been most ludicrously cari- 
catured in the Charivari: those mentioned above were usually depicted 
with the distinctive attributes mentioned by us. 

11 



162 THE FAKIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Profession, and the quacks who ruled it, alternately ; the Stage, 
and the cant that was prevalent there ; tlie Fashion, and its 
thousand follies and extravagances. Kobert Macaire had all 
these to exploiter. Of all the empire, through all the ranks, 
professions, the lies, crimes, and absurdities of men, he maj- 
make sport at will ; of all except of a certain class. Like Blue- 
beard's wife, he ma}' see everything, but is bidden to beioare of 
the blue chamher. Robert is more wise than Bluebeard's wife, 
and knows that it would cost him iiis head to enter it. Robert, 
therefore, keeps aloof for the moment. Would there be any 
use in his martyrdom ? Bluebeard cannot live for ever ; per- 
haps, even now, those are on their way (one sees a suspicious 
cloud of dust or two) that are to destroy him. 

In the meantime Robert and his friend have been furnishing 
the designs that we have before us, and of which perhaps the 
reader will be edified b}^ a brief description. We are not, to be 
sure, to judge of the French nation by M. Macnire, any more 
than we are to judge of our ov,^n national morals in the last 
century b}' such a book as the "Beggars' Opera; " but upon 
the morals and the national manners, works of satire afford a 
world of light that one would in vain look for in regular books 
of histor}' . Doctor Smollett would have blushed to devote an}' 
considerable portion of his pages to a discussion of the acts and 
character of Mr. Jonathan Wild, such a figure being hardlj' 
admissible among the dignified personages who usualh' push all 
others out from the possession of the historical page ; but a 
chapter of that gentleman's memoirs, as the}^ are recorded in 
that exemplary recueil — the "Newgate Calendar;" nay, a 
canto of the great comic epic (involving man}* fables, and con- 
taining much exaggeration, but still having the seeds of truth) 
which the satirical poet of those da3'S wrote in celebration of 
him — we mean Fielding's ' ' History of Jonathan Wild the 
Great " — does seem to us to give a more curious picture of the 
manners of those times than any recognized histor}' of them. 
At the close of his history of George II., Smollett condescenrh 
to give a short chapter on Literature and Manners. He speak^, 
of Glover's " Leonidas," Gibber's "Careless Husband," the 
poems of Mason, Gra}', the two Whiteheads, "the nervous 
style, extensive erudition, and superior sense of a Corke ; the 
delicate taste, the polished muse, and tender feehng of a 
Lyttelton." " King," he saj's, " shone unrivalled in Roman 
eloquence, the female sex distinguished themselves b}' their 
taste and ingenuity. Miss Carter rivalled the celebrated Dacier 
in learning and critical knowledge ; Mrs. Lennox signalized 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 163 

herself b}^ many successful efforts of genius both in poetrj- and 
prose ; and Miss Reid excelled the celebrated Rosalba in por- 
trait-painting, both in miniature and at large, in oil as well as 
in cra^'ons. The genius of Cervantes was transferred into the 
novels of Fielding, who painted the characters and ridiculed 
the follies of life with equal strength, humor, and propriet3^ 
The field of history and biograph}' was cultivated b}' manj 
writers of abilit}', among whom we distinguish the '^copious 
Guthrie, the circumstantial Ralph, the laborious Carte, the 
learned and elegant Robertson, and above all, the ingenious, 
penetrating, and comprehensive Hume," &c. &c. We will quote 
no more of the passage. Could a man in the best humor sit 
down to write a graver satire ? Who cares for the tender muse 
of Lyttelton ? Who knows the signal efforts of Mrs. Lennox's 
genius? Who has seen the admirable performances, in minia- 
ture and at large, in oil as well as in crayons, of Miss Reid? 
Laborious Carte, and circumstantial Ralph, and copious Guth- 
rie, where are they, their works, and their reputation? Mrs. 
Lennox's name is just as clean wiped out of the list of worthies 
as if she had never been born ; and Miss Reid, though she was 
once actual flesh and blood, " rival in miniature and at large" 
of the celebrated Rosalba, she is as if she had never been at 
all ; her little farthing rushlight of a soul and reputation having 
burnt out, and left neither wick nor tallow. Death, too, has 
overtaken copious Guthrie and circumstantial Ralph. Only a 
few know whereabouts is the grave where lies laborious Carte ; 
and yet, O wondrous power of genius ! Fielding's men and 
women are alivUi though History's are not. The progenitors 
of circumstantial Ralph sent forth, after much labor and pains 
of making, educating, feeding, clothing, a real man child, a 
great palpable mass of flesh, bones, and blood (we say nothing 
about the spirit) , which was to move through the world, pon- 
derous, writing histories, and to die, having achieved the title 
of circumstantial Ralph ; and lo ! without any of the trouble 
that the parents of Ralph had undergone, alone perhaps in a 
watch or spunging-house, fuddled most likely, in the blandest, 
easiest, and most good-humored way in the world, Henr}^ Field- 
ing makes a number of men and women on so man}' sheets of 
paper, not only more amusing than Ralph or Miss Reid, but 
more like flesh and blood, and more alive now than they. Is 
not AmeUa preparing her husband's little supper? Is not Miss 
Snapp chastely preventing the crime of Mr. Firebrand ? Is not 
Parson Adams in the midst of his family, and Mr. Wild taking 
his last bowl of punch with the Newgate Ordinarj^? Is not 



164 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

everj^ one of them a real substantial have-heen personage now? 
— more real than Reid or Ralph? For our parts, we will not 
take upon ourselves to say that they do not exist somewhere 
else : that the actions attributed to them have not really taken 
place ; certain we are that they are more worthy of credence 
than Ralph, who may or may not have been circumstantial ; 
who may or ma^^ not even have existed, a point unworthy of 
disputation. As for Miss Reid, we will take an affidavit that 
neither in miniature nor at large did she excel the celebrated 
Rosalba ; and with regard to Mrs. Lennox, we consider her 
to be a mere figment, like Narcissa, Miss Tabitha Bramble, or 
any hero or heroine depicted by the historian of ' ' Peregrine 
Pickle." 

In like manner, after viewing nearly ninety portraits of 
Robert Macaire and his friend Bertrand, all strongly resem- 
bling each other, we are inclined to believe in them as historical 
personages, and to canvass gravely the circumstances of their 
lives. Why should we not? Have we not their portraits? Are 
not they sufficient proofs ? If not, we must discredit Napoleon 
(as Archbishop Whately teaches), for about his figure and him- 
self we have no more authentic testimon}'. 

Let the reality of M. Robert Macaire and his friend M. 
Bertrand be granted, if but to gratify our own fondness for 
those exquisite characters : we find the worthy pair in the 
French capital, mingling with all grades of its societ}^, pars 
maffna in the intrigues, pleasures, perplexities, rogueries, spec- 
ulations, which are carried on in Paris, as in our own chief 
cit}' ; for it need not be said that roguer}^ is o^no country nor 
clime, but finds ws iravra-^ov y€ 7raTpi<s rj ftocTKovcra y^, is a citizen 
of all countries where the quarters are good ; among our merry 
neighbors it finds itself ver}' much at its ease. 

Not being endowed, then, with patrimonial wealth, but 
compelled to exercise their genius to obtain distinction, or even 
subsistence, we see Messrs. Bertrand and Macaire, by turns, 
adopting all trades and professions, and exercising each with 
their own peculiar ingenuit}'. As public men, we have spoken 
already of their appearance in one or two important characters, 
and stated that the Government grew fairly jealous of them, 
excluding tliem from office, as the Whigs did Lord Brougham. 
As private individuals, they are made to distinguish themselves 
as the founders of journals, societes en cohimmidite (companies 
of which the members are irresponsible be3^ond the amount 
of their shares), and all sorts of commercial speculations, 
requiring intelligence and honest}' on the part of the di- 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 165 

rectors, confidence and liberal disbursements from the share- 
holders. 

These are, among the French, so numerous, and have been 
of late 3^ears (in the shape of Newspaper Companies, Bitumen 
Companies, Galvanized-Iron Companies, Railroad Companies, 
&c.) pursued with such a blind fui^or and lust of gain, b}' that 
easil}^ excited and imaginative people, that, as ma}- be imagined, 
the satirist has found plenty of occasion for remark, and M. 
Macaire and his friend innumerable opportunities for exercising 
their talents. 

We know nothing of M. Emile de Girardin, except that, in 
a duel, he shot the best man in France, Armand Carrel ; and 
in Girardin's favor it must be said, that he had no other alter- 
native ; but was right in provoking the duel, seeing that the 
whole Republican part}' had vowed his destruction, and that he 
fought and killed their champion, as it were. We know noth- 
ing of M. Girardin's private character ; but, as far as we can 
judge from the French public prints, he seems to be the most 
speculative of speculators, and, of course, a fair butt for the 
malice of the caricaturists. His one great crime, in the eyes 
of the French Republicans and Republican newspaper pro- 
prietors, was, that Girardin set up a journal, as he called it, 
'■''franchement monarchiqiie^'" — a journal in the pa}" of the mon- 
arch}', that is, — and a journal that cost only forty francs by 
the year. The National costs twice as much ; the Charivari 
itself costs half as much again ; and though all newspapers, of 
all parties, concurred in ''snubbing" poor M. Girardin and 
his journal, the Republican prints, were by far the most bitter 
against him, thundering daily accusations and personalities ; 
whether the abuse was well or ill founded, we know not. 
Hence arose the duel with Carrel ; after the termination of 
which, Girardin put by his pistol, and vowed, very properly, to 
assist in the shedding of no more blood. Girardin had been 
the originator of numerous other speculations besides the 
journal : the capital of these, like that of the journal, was 
raised by shares, and the shareholders, by some fatality, have 
found themselves wofully in the lurch ; while Girardin carries 
on the war gayly, is, or was, a member of the Chamber of 
Deputies, has money, goes to Court, and possesses a certain 
kind of reputation. He invented, we believe, the " Institution 
Agronome de Coetbo,"* the " Physionotype," the "Journal 
des Connoissances Utiles," the "Pantheon Litteraire," and the 

* It i^ not necessary to enter into descriptions of these various inven- 
tions. 



166 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

S3'stem of "Primes" — premiums, that is — to be given, bj 
letter}', to certain subscribers in tiiese institutions. Could 
^^Robert Macaire see such things going on, and have no hand in 
ji^them ? 

? ' Accordingl}^ Messrs. Macaire and Bertrand are made the 
"^heroes of man}^ speculations of the kind. In almost the first 
print of our collection, Robert discourses to Bertrand of his 
projects. " Bertrand," says the disinterested admirer of talent 
and enterprise, " j'adore I'industrie. Si tu veux nous creons 
uue banque, mais la, une vraie banque : capital cent millior.si 
de millions, cent milliards de milliards d'actions. Nous en- 
fon^ons la banque de France, les banquiers, les banquistes ; 
nous enfon9ons tout le monde." " Oui," saj^s Bertrand, very 
calm and stupid, "mais les gendarmes?" " Que tu es bete, 
Bertrand: esj^-ce qu'on arrete un millionaire?" Such is the 
key to M. Macaire's philosoph}^ ; and a wise creed too, as 
times go. 

Acting on these principles, Robert appears soon after ; he 
has not created a bank, but a journal. He sits in a chair of 
state, and discourses to a shareholder. Bertrand, calm and 
stupid as before, stands humbly behind. " Sir," says the 
editor of La Blague^ journal quotidienne, "our profits arise 
from a new combination. The journal costs twenty francs ; we 
sell it for twent^'-three and a half. A million subscribers make 
three millions and a half of profits ; there are my figures ; con- 
tradict me by figures, or I will bring an action for hbel." The 
reader ma}' fanc}' the scene takes place in England, where many 
such a swindling prospectus has obtained credit ere now. At 
Plate 33, Robert is still a journalist ; he brings to the editor of 
a paper an article of his composition, a violent attack on a 
law. " My dear M. Macaire," says the editor, " this must be 
changed; we must praise this law." "Bon, bon ! " says our 
versatile Macaire. " Je vais retoucher 9a, et je vous fais en 
faveur de la loi un article mousseux." 

Can such things be? Is it possible that French journalists 
can so forget themselv^es ? The rogues ! the}^ should come to 
England and learn consistency. The honesty of the Press in 
England is like the air we breathe, without it we die. No, no ! 
in France, the satire may do very well ; but for England it is 
too monstrous. Call the press stupid, call it vulgar, call it 
violent, — but honest it is. Who ever heard of a journal 
changing its politics ? tempora I mores! as Robert Ma- 
caire says, this would be carrying the joke too far. 

When he has done with newspapers, Robert Macaii'e begins 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 167 

to distinguish himself on 'Change,* as a creator of companies, 
a vender of shares, or a dabbler in foreign stock. "Buy my 
coal-mine shares," shouts Robert ; "goldmines, silver mines,, 
diamond mines, ' sont de la pot-bouille de la ratatouille en 
comparaison de ma houille.'" "Look," sa3's he, on another 
occasion, to a very timid, open-countenanced cUent, "3-011' 
have a property to sell ! I have found the very man, a rich 
capitalist, a fellow whose bills are better than bank-notes." 
His client sells ; the bills are taken in payment, and signed by 
that respectable capitalist. Monsieur de Saint Bertrand. At 
Plate 81, we find him inditing a circular letter to all the world, 
running thus : — " Sir, — I regret to say that 3'our application 
for shares in tlie Consolidated European Incombustible Black- 
ing Association cannot be complied with, as all the shares of 
the C. E. I. B. A. were disposed of on the day they were 
issued. I have, nevertheless, registered your name, and in 
ease a second series should be put forth, I shall have the honor 
of immediate^ giving 3-ou notice. I am, sir, 3'ours, &c., the 
Director, Robert Macaire." — " Print 300,000 of these," he 
sa3^s to Bertrand, "and poison all France with them." As 
usual, the stupid Bertrand remonstrates — '^ But we Tiave not 
sold a single share ; 3'ou have not a penn3^ in your pocket, 
and" — " Bertrand, you are an ass ; do as I bid 3'ou." 

Will this satire appl3^ an3^where in England ? Have we an3^ 
Consolidated European Blacking Associations amongst us? 
Have we penniless directors issuing El Dorado prospectuses, 
and jockeying their shares through the market? For infor- 
mation on this head, we must refer the reader to the news- 
papers ; or if he be connected with the cit3^ and acquainted 
with commercial men, he will be able to sa3^ whether all the 
persons whose names figure at the head of announcements of 
projected companies are as rich as Rothschild, or quite as 
honest as heart could desire. 

When Macaire has suflficiently exploite the Bourse, whether 
as a gambler in the public funds or other companies, he sagel3^ 
perceives that it is time to turn to some other profession, and, 
providing himself with a black gown, proposes blandl3' to Ber- 
trand to set up — a new rehgion. " Mon ami," sa3's the repen- 
tant sinner, " le temps de la commandite va passer, mats les ' 
badauds ne passeront pas." (O rare sentence ! it should be 
written in letters of gold!) " Occupons nous de ce qui est 
eternel. Si nous fassions une religion?" On which M. Ber- 

* We have given a descriptiou of a genteel Macaire in the account of 
M. de Bernard's novels. 



168 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

trand remarks, " A religion ! what the devil — a religion Is not 
an easy thing to make." But Macaire's receipt is easy. " Get 
a gown, take a shop," he says, "borrow some chairs, preach 
about Napoleon, or the discover}^ of America, or Moliere — 
and there's a religion for you." 

We have quoted this sentence more for the contrast it offers 
with our own manners, than for its merits. After the noble 
paragraph, " Les badauds ne passeront pas. Occupons nous 
de ce qui est eternel," one would have expected better satire 
upon cant than the words that follow. We are not in a condi- 
tion to say whether the subjects chosen are those that had been 
selected by Pere Enfantin, or Chatel, or Lacordaire ; but the 
words are curious, we think, for the ver^^ reason that the satire is 
so poor. The fact is, there is no religion in Paris ; even clever 
M. Philipon, who satirizes everything, and must know, there- 
fore, some little about the subject which he ridicules, has nothing 
to say but, " Preach a sermon, and that makes a religion ; an}-- 
thing will do." If anything will do, it is clear that the religious 
commodity is not in much demand. Tartuffe had better things 
to sa}' about hypocris}^ in his time ; but then Faith was alive ; 
now, there is no satirizing religious cant in France, for its con- 
trary, true religion, has disappeared altogether ; and having no 
substance, can cast no shadow. If a satirist would lash the 
religious h^^pocrites in England now — the High Church hj-po- 
crites, the Low Church hj'pocrites, the promiscuous Dissenting 
hypocrites, the No Popery hypocrites — he would have ample 
subject enough. In France, the religious h3'pocrites went out 
with the Bourbons. Those who remain pious in that countr}' 
(or, rather, we should say, in the capital, for of that we speak,) 
are unaffectedl}' so, for they have no worldly benefit to hope for 
from their piet3' ; the great majority have no religion at all, and 
do not scoff at the few, for scoffing is the minority's weapon, 
and is passed alwa^'S to the weaker side, whatever that may be. 
Thus H. B. caricatures the Ministers : if by any accident that 
body of men should be dismissed from their situations, and be 
succeeded b}^ H. B.'s friends, the Tories, — what must the poor 
artist do? He must pine awa}^ and die, if he be not converted ; 
he cannot always be paying compliments ; for caricature has 
a spice of Goethe's Devil in it, and is " der Geist der stets 
verneint," the Spirit that is always denying. 

With one or two of the French writers and painters of 
caricatures, the King tried the experiment of bribery ; which 
succeeded occasionally in buying off the enemy, and bringing 
him from the republican to the roj-al camp ; but when there, the 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 169 

deserter was never of any use. Figaro, when so treated, grew 
fat and desponding, and lost all his sprightly verve ; and Neme- 
sis became as gentle as a Quakeress. But these instances of 
" ratting" were not man}'. Some few poets were bought over ; 
but, among men following the profe'ssion of the press, a change 
of politics is an infringement of the point of honor, and a man- 
must fght as well as apostatize. A very curious table might be 
made, signalizing the difference of the moral standard between 
us and the French. Why is the grossness and indelicacy, pub- 
licly permitted in England, unknown in France, where private 
morality is certainly at a lower ebb ? Why is the point of pri- 
vate honor now more rigidly maintained among the Fi'ench? 
Wh}" is it, as it should be, a moral disgrace for a Frenchman to 
go into debt, and no disgrace for him to cheat his customer? 
Why is there more honesty and less — more propriety and less ? 
— and how are we to account for the particular vices or virtues 
which belong to each nation in its turn ? 

The above is the Reverend M. Macaire's solitary exploit as 
a spiritual swindler : as Maitre Macaire in the courts of law, 
as avocdt, avoue — in a humbler capacity even, as a prisoner at 
the bar, he distinguishes himself greatly, as may be imagined. 
On one occasion we find the learned gentleman humanely visit- 
ing an unfortunate detenu — no other person, in fact, than his 
friend M. Bertrand, who has fallen into some trouble, and is 
awaiting the sentence of the law. He begins — 

" Mon cher Bertrand, donne moi cent ecus, je te fais acquit- 
ter d'emblee." 

" J'ai pas d'argent." 

" He bien, donne moi cent francs." 

"Pas le sou." 

" Tu n'as pas dix francs? " 

"Pas un hard." 

"Alors donne moi tes bottes, je plaiderai la circonstance 
attenuante." 

The manner in which Maitre Macaire soars from the cent 
ecus (a high point alread}^) to the sublime of the boots, is in the 
best comic style. In another instance he pleads before a judge, 
and, mistaking his cUent, pleads for defendant, instead of plain- 
tiff. " The infamy of the plaintiffs character, my hids, renders 
his testimony on such a charge as this wholly unavailing." 
" M. Macaire, M. Macaire," cries the attorney, in a fright, 
"you are for the plaintiff!" "This, my lords, is what the 
defendant witl say. This is the line of defence which the oppo- 
site party intend to pursue ; as if slanders like tiiese could weigh 



170 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

with an enlightened jur}-, or injure the spotless reputation of 
my client ! " In this story and expedient M. Macaire has been 
indebted to the English bar. If there be an occupation for the 
English satirist in the exposing of the cant and knavery oi" 
the pretenders to i-ehgion, what room is there for him to lasli 
the infamies of the law ! On this point the French are balies 
in iniquity compared to us — a counsel prostituting himself foi' 
mone}^ is a matter with us so stale, that it is hardly food 
:^or satire : which, to be popular, must find some much more 
complicated and interesting knavery whereon to exercise its 
.skill. 

M. Macaire is more skilful in love than in law, and appears 
once or twice in a very amiable light while under the influence 
of the tender passion. We find him at the head of one of those 
useful establishments unknown in our country — a Bureau de 
Manage : half a dozen of such places are daily advertised in 
the journals : and " une veuve de trente ans ayant une fortune 
de deux cent mille francs," or " une demoiselle de quinze ans, 
jolie, d'une famille tres distinguee, qui possede trente mille livres 
de rentes," — continually, in this kind-hearted wav, are offering 
themselves to the public: sometimes it is a gentleman, with a 
"physique agreable, — des talens de societe" — and a place 
under Government, who makes a sacrifice of himself in a similar 
manner. In our little historical gallery we find this philan- 
thropic anti-Malthusian at the head of an establishment of this 
kind, introducing a very meek, simple-looking bachelor to some 
distinguished ladies of his connoissance. " Let me present 3'ou, 
sir, to Madame de St. Bertrand" (it is our old friend), " veuve 
de la grande armee, et Mdlle Eloa de Wormspire. Ces dames 
brulent de I'envie de faire votre connoissance. Je les ai invitees 
h. diner chez vous ce soir : vous nous menerez a Fopera, et nous 
ferons une petite partie d'ecarte. Tenez vous bien, M. Gobard ! 
ces dames ont des projets sur vous ! " 

Happ3^ Gobard ! happy S3'stem, which can thus bring the 
pure and loving together, and acts as the best all}' of Hymen ! 
The announcement of the rank and titles of Madame de St. 
Bertrand — "veuve de la grande armee"* — is very happy. 
" La grande armee" has been a father to more orphans, and a 
husband to more widows, than it ever made. Mistresses of 
cafes\, old governesses, keepers of boarding-houses, genteel 
beggars, and ladies of lower rank still, have this favorite pedi- 
gree. They haA^e all had malheurs (what kind it is needless to 
particularize), they are all connected with the grand homme^ 
and their fathers were all colonels. This title exactly answers 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 171 

to the " clerg3^man's daughter" in England — as, "A young 
lad}', the daughter of a clerg3'man, is desirous to teach," &c. ; 
"A clergyman's widow receives into her house a few select," 
and so forth. "Appeal to the benevolent. — B}^ a series of 
unheard-of calamities, a young lad}', daughter of a clergyman 
in the west of England, has been plunged," &c. &c. The 
difference is curious, as indicating the standard of respecta- 
bility. 

The male beggar of fashion is not so well known among us 
as in Paris, where street-doors are open ; six or eight families 
live in a house ; and the gentleman who earns his livehhood by 
this profession can make half a dozen visits without the trouble 
of knocking from house to house, and the pain of being observed 
by the whole street, while the footman is examining him from 
the area. Some few ma}' be seen in England about the inns 
of court, where the localit}^ is favorable (where, however, the 
owners of the chambers are not proverbially soft of heart, so 
that the harvest must be poor) ; but Paris is full of such adven- 
turers, —fat, smooth-tongued, and well dressed, with gloves 
and gilt-headed canes, who would be insulted almost b}^ the 
offer of silver, and expect 3'our gold as their right. Among 
these, of course, our friend Robert plays his part ; and an 
excellent engraving represents him, snuff-box in hand, advan- 
cing to an old gentleman, whom, by his poodle, his powdered 
head, and his drivelling, stupid look, one knows to be a Carlist 
of the old regime. " I beg pardon," says Robert ; " is it really 
yourself to whom I have the honor of speaking?" — " It is." 
'" Do you take snuff? " — " I thank you." — " Sir, I have had 
misfortunes — I want assistance. I am a Vendean of illustrious 
birth. You know the family of Macairbec — we are of Brest. 
]My grandfather served the King in his galleys : my father and 
I belong, also, to the marine. Unfortunate suits at law have 
plunged us into difficulties, and I do not hesitate to ask you for 
the succor of ten francs." — " Sir, I never give to those I don't 
know." — '' Right, sir, perfectly right. Perhaps you will have 
the kindness to lend me ten francs ? " 

The adventures of Doctor Macaire need not be described, 
because the different degrees in quacker}^ which are taken by 
that learned physician are all well known in England, where 
we have the advantage of many higher degrees in the science, 
which our neighbors know nothing about. We have not Hahne- 
mann, but we have his disciples ; we have not Broussais, but 
we have the College of Health ; and surely a dose of Morrison's 
pills is a sublimer discovery than a draught of hot water. We 



172 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



had St. John Long, too — where is his science ? — and we are 
credibly informed that some important cures have been effected 
b3' tlie inspired dignitaries of " the church" in Newman Street 

— which, if it continue to practise, will sadly interfere with the 
profits of the regular ph3'sicians, and where the miracles of the 
Abbe of Paris are about to be acted over again. 

In speaking of M. Macaire and his adventures, we have 
managed so entirely to convince ourselves of the reality of the 
personage, that we have quite forgotten to speak of Messrs. 
Philipon and Daumier, who are, the one the inventor, the other , 
the designer, of the Macaire Picture Gallery. As works of 
esprit^ these drawings are not more remarkable than they are 
as works of art, and we never recollect to have seen a series of 
sketches possessing more extraordinary cleverness and varietj^ 
The countenance and figure of Macaire and the dear stupid 
Bertrand are preserved, of course, with great fidehty through- 
out ; but the admirable wa}^ in which each fresh character is 
conceived, the grotesque appropriateness of Robert's every suc- 
cessive attitude and gesticulation, and the variety of Bertrand's 
postures of invariable repose, the exquisite fitness of all the 
other characters, who act their little part and disappear from 
the scene, cannot be described on paper, or too highly lauded. 
The figures are very carelessl}' drawn ; but, if the reader can 
understand us, all the attitudes and limbs are perfectly conceived^ 
and wonderfully natural and various. After pondering over 
these drawings for some hours, as we have been while compihng 
this notice of them, we have grown to believe that the person- 
ages are real, and the scenes remain imprinted on the brain as 
if we had absolutely been present at their acting. Perhaps the 
clever way in which the plates are colored, and the excellent 
effect which is put into each, may add to this illusion. Now, 
in looking, for instance, at H. B.'s slim vapory figures, they 
have struck us as excellent likenesses of men and women, but 
no more : the bodies want spirit, action, and individuality. 
George Cruikshank, as a humorist, has quite as much genius, 
but he does not know the art of " effect" so well as Monsieur 
Daumier ; and, if we might venture to give a word of advice to 
another humorous designer, whose works are extensively circu- 
lated — the illustrator of " Pickwick " and " Nicholas Nickleby," 

— it would be to study well these caricatures of Monsieur 
Daumier ; who, though he executes very carelessl}', knows very 
well what he would express, indicates perfectl}^ the attitude 
and identity of his figure, and is quite aware, beforehand, of 
the effect which he intends to produce. The one we should 



^ 



CARICATURES AND LITHOGRAPHY. 173 

faiic}^ to be a practised artist, . taking his ease ; the other, a 
3^oang one, somewhat bewildered : a ver}" clever one, however, 
who, if he would think more, and exaggerate less, would add 
not a little to his reputation. 

Having pursued, all through these remarks, the comparison 
between English art and French art, English and French humor, 
manners, and morals, perhaps we should endeavor, also, to write 
an anal^'tical essay on Enghsh cant or humbug, as distinguished 
from French. It might be shown that the latter was more pictur- 
esque and startling, the former more substantial and positive. 
It has none of the poetic flights of the French genius, but ad- 
vances steadily, and gains more ground in the end than its 
sprightlier compeer. But such a discussion would carrj' us 
jihrough the whole range of French and English history, and 
the reader has probably read quite enough of the subject in this 
and the foregoing pages. 

We shall, therefore, say no more of French and English 
caricatures generall}^, or of Mr. Macaire's particular accom- 
plishments and adventures. The}- are far better understood by 
examining the original pictures, by which Philipon and Daumier 
have illustrated them, than b}' translations first into print and 
afterwards into English. Thej^ form a verj^ curious and instruc- 
tive commentary upon the present state of society in Paris, and 
a hundred years hence, when the whole of this struggling, noisy, 
busy, merry race shall have exchanged their pleasures or occu- 
pations for a quiet coffin (and a tawdry lying epitaph) at Mont- 
martre, or Pere la Chaise ; when the follies here recorded shall 
have been superseded by new ones, and the fools now so active 
shall have given up the inheritance of the world to their chil- 
dren : the latter will, at least, have the advantage of knowing, 
intimately and exactly, the manners of life and being of their 
grandsires, and calling up, when they so choose it, our ghosts 
from the grave, to live, love, quarrel, swindle, suffer, and 
struggle on bhndly as of j^ore. And when the amused specula 
tor shall have laughed sufficiently at the immensity of our foUies, 
and the paltriness of our aims, smiled at our exploded super- 
stitions, wondered how this man should be considered great, 
who is now clean forgotten (as copious Guthrie beforemen- 
tioned) ; how this should have been thought a patriot who is 
but a knave spouting commonplace ; or how that should have 
been dubbed a philosopher who is but a dull fool, blinking 
solemn, and pretending to see in the dark ; when he shall have 
examined all these at his leisure, smiling in a pleasant contempt 



174 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

and good-humored superiorit}^,. and thanking heaven for his 
increased lights, he will shut the book, and be a fool as his 
fathers were before him. 

It runs in the blood. Well hast thou said, O ragged 
Macaire, — " Le jour va passer, mais les badauds ne passe- 

RONT PAS." 



LITTLE POINSINET. 



About the 3^ear 1760, there lived, at Paris, a little fellow, 
who was the darling of all the wags of his acquaintance. 
Nature seemed, in the formation of this little man, to have 
amused herself, b}^ giving loose to half a hundred of her most 
comical caprices. He had some wit and drollery of his own, 
which sometimes rendered his sfflhes ver}' amusing ; but, where 
his friends laughed with him once, they laughed at him a 
thousand times, for he had a fund of absurdity in himself that 
was more pleasant than all the wit in the world. He was as 
proud as a peacock, as wicked as an ape, and as sill}- as a 
goose. He did not possess one single grain of common sense ; 
but, in revenge, his pretensions were enormous, his ignorance 
vast, and his credulity more extensive still. From his 3'outh 
upwards, he had read nothing but the new novels, and the 
verses in the almanacs, which helped him not a little in mak- 
ing, what he called, poetry of his own ; for, of course, our little 
hero was a poet. All the common usages of life, all the ways 
of the world, and all the customs of society, seemed to be quite 
unknown to him ; add to these good qualities, a magnificent 
conceit, a cowardice inconceivable, and a face so irresistil)]y 
comic, that every one who first beheld it was compelled to 
burst out a-laughing, and 3'ou will have some notion of this 
strange little gentleman. He was very proud of his voice, and 
uttered all his sentences in the richest tragic tone. He was 
little better than a dwarf; but he elevated his eyebrows, held 
up his neck, walked on the tips of his toes, and gave himself 
the airs of a giiint. He had a little pair of bandy legs, whicli 
seemed much too short to support anything hke a human body ; 
but, by the help of these crooked supporters, he thought he 
could dance like a Grace ; and, indeed, fancied all the graces 



176 THE PARTS SKETCH BOOK. 

possible were to be found in his person. His goggle eyes were 
always rolling about wildly, as if in correspondence with the 
disorder of his little brain ; and his countenance thus wore an 
expression of perpetual wonder. With such happ}' natural gifts, 
he not only fell into all traps that were laid for him, but seemed 
almost to go out of his wa}- to seek them ; altliough, to be sure, 
his friends did not give him much trouble in that search, for 
they prepared hoaxes for him incessantl3\ 

One da}^ the wags introduced him to a company of ladies, 
who, though not countesses and princesses exactl^^ took, 
nevertheless, those titles upon themselves for the nonce ; and 
were all, for the same reason, violently smitten with Master 
Poinsinet's person. One of them, the lady of the house, was 
especially tender ; and, seating him by her side at supper, so 
plied him with smiles, ogles, and champagne, that our little hero 
grew ci'azed with ecstasy, and wild with love. In the midst of 
his happiness, a cruel knock was heard below, accompanied by 
quick loud talking, swearing, and shuffling of feet : j^ou would 
have thought a regiment was at the door. "Oh heavens!" 
cried the marchioness, starting up, and giving to the hand 
of Poinsinet one parting squeeze; "fly — fly, mj' Poinsinet : 
'tis the colonel — my husband ! " At tliis, each gentkman of 
the party rose, and, drawing his rapier, vowed to cut his way 
through the colonel and all his mousquetaires^ or die, if need 
be, b}^ the side of Poinsinet. 

The little fellow was obliged to lug out his sword too, and 
went shuddering down stairs, heartily' repenting of his passion 
for marchionesses. When the party arrived in the street, they 
found, sure enough, a dreadful company of mousquetalres^ as 
they seemed, ready to oppose their passage. Swords crossed, 
— torches blazed; and, with the most dreadful shouts and 
imprecations, the contending parties rushed upon one another ; 
the friends of Poinsinet surrounding and supporting that little 
warrior, as the French knights did King Francis at Pavia, 
otherwise the poor fellow certainly would have fallen down in 
the gutter from fright. 

But the combat was suddenly interrupted ; for the neigh- 
bors, who knew nothing of the trick going on, and thought the 
brawl was real, had been screaming with all their might for 
the police, who began about this time to arrive. Directl}^ the3' 
appeared, friends and enemies of Poinsinet at once took to 
their heels ; and, in this part of the transaction, at least, our 
hero himself showed that he was equal to the • longest-legged 
grenadier that ever ran away. 



LITTLE POIXSTKET. 177 

"When, at last, those little bandy legs of his had borne him 
safely to his lodgings, all Poinsinet's friends crowded round 
him, to congratulate him on his escape and his valor. 

"Egad, how he pinked that gi'eat red-haired fellow ! " said 
one. 

" No ; did I? " said Poinsinet. 

' ' Did 3'ou ? Psha ! don't trj- to play the modest, and 
humbug us; you know you did. I suppose 3'ou will say, 
next, that 3- on were not for three minutes point to point with 
Cartentierce himself, the most dreadful swordsman of the 
army." 

" Wh3^ 3^ou see," sa3's Poinsinet, quite delighted, " it was 
so dark that I did not know with whom I was engaged ; al- 
though, corbleu, I did for one or two of the fellows." And 
after a little more of such conversation, during which he was 
fully persuaded that he had done for a dozen of the enemy at 
least, Poinsinet went to bed, his little person trembling with 
fright and pleasure ; and he fell asleep, and dreamed of res- 
cuing ladies, and destroying monsters, like a second Amadis 
de Gaul. 

When he awoke in the morning, he found a party of his 
friends in his room : one was examining his coat and waist- 
coat ; another was casting man3^ curious glances at his inex- 
pressibles. "Look here!" said this gentleman, holding up 
the garment to the light ; " one — two — three gashes ! I am 
hanged if the cowards did not aim at Poinsinet's legs ! There 
are four holes in the sword arm of his coat, and seven have 
gone right through coat and waistcoat. Good heaven ! Poin- 
sinet, have ^'ou had a surgeon to 3^our wounds?" 

"Wounds!" said the little man, springing up, "I don't 
know — that is, I hope — that is — O Lord ! 6 Lord ! I hope 
I'm not wounded ! " and, after a proper examination, he dis- 
covered he was not. 

"Thank heaven! thank heaven!" said one of the wags 
(who, indeed, during the slumbers of Poinsinet had been occu- 
pied in making these very holes through the garments of that 
individual), "if you have escaped, it is by a miracle. Alas! 
alas ! all your enemies have not been so luck3^" 

" How ! is anybody wounded?" said Poinsinet. 

" M3' dearest friend, prepare 3'ourself; that unhapp3^ man 
who came to revenge his menaced honor — that gallant officer 
— that injured husband. Colonel Count de Cartentierce — " 

"WeU?" 

"Is NO MORE I he died this morning, pierced through with 

12 



i/8 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

nineteen wounds from 3'oiir hand, and calling upon his country 
to revenge his mnrder." 

Wlien tliis awful sentence was pronounced, all the auditory 
gave a pathetic and simultaneous sob ; and as for Poinsinet, be 
sank back on his bed v/ith a howl of terror, which would have 
melted a Visigoth to tears, or to laughter. As soon as his 
terror and I'emorse had, in some degree, subsided, his comrades 
spoke to him of the necessit}^ of making his escape ; and, hud- 
dling on his clothes, and bidding them all a tender adieu, he 
set off, incontinently, without his breakfast, for England, 
America, or Russia, not knowing exactly which. 

One of his companions agreed to accompany him on a part 
of this journe}^ — that is, as far as the barrier of St. Denis, 
which is, as everj'body knows, on the high road to Dover ; and 
there, being tolerably secure, they entered a tavern for break- 
fast ; which meal, the last that he ever was to take, perhaps, 
in his native city, Poinsinet was just about to discuss, when, 
behold ! a gentleman entered the apartment where Poinsinet 
and his friend were seated, and, drawing from his pocket a 
paper, with " Au nom du Roy" flourished on the top, read 
from it, or rather from Poinsinet's own figure, his exact signale- 
iiient. laid his hand on his shoulder, and arrested him in the 
name of the King, and of the provost-marshal of Paris. "I 
arrest you, sir," said he, gravel3% " with regret ; j^ou have slain, 
with seventeen wounds, in single combat, Colonel Count de 
Cartentierce, one of his Majestj^'s household ; and, as his mur- 
derer, you fall under the immediate authority of the provost- 
marslial, and die without trial or benefit of clergy." 

You may fancy how the poor little man's appetite fell when 
he heard this speech. "In the provost-marshal's hands?" 
paid his friend : " then it is all over, indeed ! When does my 
poor friend suffer, sir?" 

"At half-past six o'clock, the day after to-morrow," said 
the officer, sitting down, and helping himself to wine. "But 
stop," said he, suddenly; "sure I can't mistake? Yes — no 
— yes, it is. My dear friend, my dear Durand ! don't 3'ou 
recollect 3"our old schoolfellow, Antoine?" And herewith 
the ofl^cer flung himself into the arms of Durand, Poinsinet's 
comrade, and they performed a most affecting scene of friend- 
ship. 

" This may be of some service to 3'ou." whispered Durand 
to Poinsinet ; and, after some further parle3% he asked the officer 
when he was bound to deliver up his prisoner ; and, hearing that 
he was not called upon to appear at the Marshalsea before six 



LITTLE POINSINET. 179 

o'clock at night, Monsieur Durand prevailed upon Monsieur An- 
toine to wait until that hour, and in the meantime to allow his 
prisoner to walk about the town in his company. This request 
was, with a little difficulty, granted ; and poor 'Poinsinet begged 
to be carried to the houses of his various friends, and bid them 
farewell. Some were aware of the trick that had been played 
upon him : others were not ; but the poor little man's credulit}' 
was so great, that it was impossible to undeceive him ; and he 
went from house to house bewaiUng his fate, and followed by the 
complaisant marshal's officer. 

The news of his death he received with much more meekness 
than could have been expected ; but what he could not reconcile 
to himself was, the idea of dissection afterwards. "What can 
the}' want with me ? " cried the poor wretch, in an unusual fit 
of candor. "I am very .small and ugly ; it would be difTerent 
if I were a tall fine-looking fellow." But he was given to un- 
derstand that beauty made very little difference to the surgeons, 
who, on the contrary, would, on certain occasions, prefer a de- 
formed man to a handsome one ; for science was much advanced 
by the study of such monstrosities. With this reason Poinsinet 
was obliged to be content ; and so paid his rounds of visits, and 
repeated his dismal adieux. 

The officer of the provost-marshal, iiowever amusing Poin- 
sinet's woes might haA^e been, began, by this time, to grow very 
wear}^ of them, and gave him more than one opportunity to es- 
cape. He would stop at shop- windows, loiter round %)rners, 
and look up in the sky, but all in vain : Poinsinet would not es- 
cape, do what the other would. At length, luckily, about din- 
ner-time, the officer met one of Poinsinet's friends and his own .- 
and the three agreed to dine at a tavern, as they had break- 
fasted ; and here the officer, who vowed that he had been up for 
five weeks incessantly, fell suddenl}' asleep, in the profoundest 
fatigue ; and Poinsinet was persuaded, after much hesitation on 
his part, to take leave of him. 

And now, this danger overcome, another was to be avoided. 
Beyond a doubt the police were after him, and how was he to 
avoid them? He must be disguised, of course ; and one of his 
friends, a tall, gaunt lawyer's clerk, agreed to provide him with 
habits. 

So little Poinsinet dressed himself out in the clerk's ding}^ 
black suit, of which the knee-breeches hung down to his heels, 
and the waist of the coat reached to the calves of his legs ; and, 
furthermore, he blacked his ej-ebrows, and wore a huge black 
periwig, in which his friend vowed that no one could recognize 



180 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

him. But the most painful incident, with regard to the periwig, 
was, that Poinsinet, whose soUtar}^ beaut}' — if beaut}- it might 
be called — was a head of copious, curling, 3^ellow hair, was 
compelled to snip off every one of his golden locks, and to rub 
the bristles with a black d3'e ; ' ' for if 3'our wig were to come 
off," said the law^^er, •' and 3'our fair hair to tumble over 3'our 
shoulders, ever}^ man would know, or at least suspect 3'ou." So 
off the locks were cut, and in his black suit and periwig little 
Poinsinet went abroad. 

His friends had their cue ; and when he appeared amongst 
them, not one seemed to know him. He was taken into compa- 
nies where his character was discussed before him, and his won- 
derful escape spoken of. At last he was introduced to the very 
officer of the provost-marshal who had taken him into custod}", 
and who told him that he had been dismissed the provost's ser- 
vice, in consequence of the escape of the prisoner. Now, for 
the first time, poor Poinsinet thought himself tolerably safe, and 
blessed his kind friends who had procured for him such a com- 
plete disguise. How this affair ended I know not, — whether 
some new lie was coined to account for his release, or whether 
he was simply told that he had been hoaxed : it mattered little ; 
for the little man was quite as ready to be hoaxed the next day. 

Poinsinet was one day invited to dine with one of the servants 
of the Tuileries ; and, before his arrival, a person in compan}* 
had been decorated with a knot of lace and a gold ke3', such as 
chamb^i'lains wear ; he was introduced to Poinsinet as the Count 
de Truchses, chamberlain to the King of Prussia. After dinner 
the conversation fell upon the Count's visit to Paris ; when his 
Excellency, with a m3^sterious air, vowed that he had onty come 
for pleasure. " It is might}" well," said a third person, " and, 
of course, we can't cross-question your lordship too closel3^ ; " 
but at the same time it was hinted to Poinsinet that a person of 
such consequence did not travel for nothing, with which opinion 
Poinsinet solemnly agreed ; and, indeed, it was borne out by a 
subsequent declaration of the Count, who condescended, at last, 
to tell the company, in confidence, that he had a mission, and a 
most important one — to find, namel3', among the literary men 
of France, a governor for the Prince Royal of Prussia. The 
company seemed astonished that the King had not made choice 
of Voltaire or D'Alembert, and mentioned a dozen other distin- 
guished men who might be competent to this important dut3' ; 
but the Count, as may be imagined, found objections to ever3' 
one of them ; and, at last, one of the guests said, that, if his 
Prussian Majesty was not particular as to age, he knew a person 



LITTLE POINSINET. 181 

more fitted for the place than an}- other who could be found, — 
his honorable friend, M. Poinsinet, was the individual to whom 
he alluded. 

' ' Good heavens ! " cried the Count, "is it possible that the 
celebrated Poinsinet would take such a place ? I would give 
the world to see him?" And j'ou ma}' fancy how Poinsinet 
simpered and blushed when the introduction immediately took 
place. 

The Count protested to him that the King would be charmed 
to know him ; and added, that one of his operas (for it must be 
told that our little friend was a vaudeville-maker b}' trade) had 
been acted seven-and- twenty times at the theatre at Potsdam. 
His Excellency then detailed to him all the honors and privi- 
leges which the governor of the Prince Royal might expect ; 
and all the guests encouraged the little man's vanity, by asking 
him for hi^ protection and favor. In a short time our hero 
grew so inflated with pride and vanity, that he was for patron- 
izing the chamberlain himself, who proceeded to inform him 
that he was furnished with all the necessary powers by his 
sovereign, who had specialty enjoined him to confer upon the 
future governor of his son the royal order of the Black Eagle. 

Poinsinet, delighted, was ordered to kneel down ; and the 
Count produced a large yellow ribbon, which he hung over his 
shoulder, and which was, he declared, the grand cordon of the 
order. You must fanc}' Poinsinet's face, and excessive delight 
at this ; for as for describing them, nobody can. For four-and- 
twenty hours the happy chevalier paraded through Paris with 
this flaring j^ellow ribbon ; and he was not undeceived until his 
friends had another trick in store for him. 

He dined one dsij in the company of a man who understood 
a little of the noble art of conjuring, and performed some clever 
tricks on the cards. Poinsinet's organ of wonder was enor- 
mous ; he looked on with the gravity and awe of a child, and 
thought the man's tricks sheer miracles. It wanted no more to 
set his companions to work. 

" Who is this wonderful man?" said he to his neighbor. 

"Why," said the other, m3^steriously, "one hardly knows 
who he is ; or, at least, one does not like to say to such an in- 
discreet fellow as 3'ou are." Poinsinet at once swore to be 
secret. "Well, then," said his friend, "you will hear that 
man — that wonderful man — called by a name which is not 
his : his real name is Acosta : he is a Portuguese Jew, a Rosi- 
crucian, and Cabalist of the first order, and compelled to leave 
Lisbon for fear of the Inquisition. He performs here, as you 



182 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

see, some extraordinaiy things, occasionally ; but the master 
of the house, who loves him excessively, would not, for the 
world, that his name should be made public." 

" Ah, bah ! " said Poinsinet, who affected the hel esprit; 
'\you don't mean to say that you believe in magic, and ca- 
balas, and such trash?" 

" Do I not? You shall, judge for yourself." And, accord- 
ingly, Poinsinet was presented to the magician, who pretended 
to take a vast liking for him, and declared that he saw in him 
certain marks which would infallibly lead him to great eminence 
in the magic art, if he chose to stud}- it. 

Dinner was served, and Poinsinet placed by the side of the 
miracle-worker, who became very confidential with him, and 
promised him — ay, before dinner was over — a remarkable 
instance of his power. Nobod}^ on this occasion, ventured to 
cut a single joke against poor Poinsinet ; nor could he fancy 
that any trick was intended against him, for the demeanor of 
the society towards him was perfectly grave and respectful, 
and the conversation serious. On a sudden, however, some- 
body exclaimed, " Where is Poinsinet? Did any one see him 
leave the room ? " 

All the company exclaimed how singular the disappearance 
was ; and Poinsinet himself, growing alarmed, turned round to 
his neighbor, and was about to explain. 

'•Hush!" said the magician, in a whisper; ''I told you 
that 3'ou should see what I could do. I have made you invisible ; 
be quiet, and you shall see some more tricks that I shall play 
with these fellows." 

Poinsinet remained then silent, and listened to his neigh- 
bors, who agreed, at last, that he was a quiet, orderly person- 
age, and had left the table earh', being unwilling to drink too 
much. Presently they ceased to talk about him, and resumed 
their conversation upon other matters. 

At first it was very quiet and grave, but the master of the 
house brought back the talk to the subject of Poinsinet, and 
uttered all sorts of abuse concerning him. He begged the 
gentleman, who had introduced such a little scamp into his 
house, to bring him thither no more : whereupon the other took 
up, warmly, Poinsinet's defence ; declared that he was a man of 
the greatest merit, frequenting the best society, and remarkable 
for his talents as well as his virtues. 

" Ah ! " said Poinsinet to the magician, quite charmed at 
what he heard, " how ever shall I thank you, my dear sir, for 
thus showing me who my true friends are ? " 



LITTLE POINSINET. 183 

The magician promised him still further favors in prospect ; 
and told him to look out now, for he was about to throw all 
the company into a temporary fit of madness, which, no doubt, 
would be ver}" amusing. 

In consequence, all the compan}^ who had heard every syl- 
lable of the conversation, began to perform the most extraor- 
dinary antics, much to the delight of Foinsinet. One asked a 
nonsensical question, and the other delivered an answer not at 
all to the purpose. If a man asked for a drink, they poured 
him out a pepper-box or a napkin : they took a pinch of snuff, 
and swore it was excellent wine ; and vowed that the bread was 
the most delicious mutton ever tasted. The little man was 
delighted. 

'*Ah!" said he, "these fellows are prettily punished for 
their rascally backbiting of me ! " 

" Gentlemen," said the host, "I shall now give you some 
celebrated champagne," and he poured out to each a glass of 
water. 

" Good heavens ! " said one, spitting it out, with the most 
horrible grimace, " where did you get this detestable claret? " 

"Ah, faugh!" said a second, "I never tasted such vile 
corked burgundy in all m}' da3's ! " and he threw the glass of 
water into Poinsinet's face, as did half a dozen of the other 
guests, drenching the poor wretch to the skin. To complete 
this pleasant illusion, two of the guests fell to boxing across 
Poinsinet, who received a number of the blows, and received 
them with the patience of a fakir, feeling himself more flattered 
b}^ the precious privilege of beholding this scene invisible, than 
hurt by the blows and buffets which the mad company bestowed 
upon him. 

The fame of this adventure spread quickly over Paris, and 
all the world longed to have at their houses the representation 
of Poinsinet the Invisible. The servants and the whole company 
used to be put up to the trick ; and Poinsinet, who beUeved in 
his invisibility as much as he did in his existence, went about 
with his friend and protector the magician. People, of course, 
never pretended to see him, and would very often not talk of 
him at all for some time, but hold sober conversation about 
anything else in the world. When dinner was served, of course 
tliere was no cover laid for Poinsinet, who carried about a httle 
stool, on which he sat b}^ the side of the magician, and always 
ate off his plate. Everybod}^ was astonished at the magician's 
appetite and at the quantity of wine he drank ; as for little 
Poinsinet, he never once suspected any trick, and had such a 



184 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

confidence in his magician, that, I do believe, if the latter had 
told him to fling himself out of window, he would have done so, 
without the slightest trepidation. 

Among other mystiiications in which the Portuguese en- 
chanter plunged him, was one which used to afford always a 
good deal of amusement. He informed Poinsinet, with great 
myster}', that lie was not liimself ; he was not, that is to say, 
that ugly, deformed little monster, called Poinsinet ; but that 
his birth was most illustrious, and his real name Polycarte. 
He was, in fact, the son of a celebrated magician ; but other 
magicians, enemies of his father, had changed him in his cradle, 
altering his features into their present hideous shape, in order 
that a silly old fellow, called Poinsinet, might take him to be 
his own son, which little monster the magician had lil^ewise 
spirited away. 

The poor wretch was sadly cast down at this ; for he tried 
to fanc}' that his person was agreeable to the ladies, of whom 
he was one of the warmest httle admirers possible ; and to 
console him somewhat, the magician told him that his real 
shape was exquisitely beautiful, and as soon as he should ap- 
pear in it, all the beauties in Paris would be at his feet. But 
how to regain it? ^' Oh, for one minute of that beauty ! " cried 
the little man ; " what w^ould he not give to appear under that 
enchanting form ! " The magician hereupon waved his stick 
over his head, pronounced some awful magical words, and 
twisted him round three times ; at the third twist, the men in 
compan}" seemed struck with astonishment and env}', the ladies 
clasped their hands, and some of them kissed his. Everybody 
declared his beauty to be supernatural. 

Poinsinet, enchanted, rushed to a glass. " Fool ! " said the 
magician ; "do 3'ou suppose that you can see the change ? My 
power to render you invisible, beautiful, or ten times more 
hideous even than you are, extends only to others, not to you. 
You may look a thousand times in the glass, and you will only 
see those deformed limbs and disgusting features Avith which 
devilish malice has disguised 3^ou." Poor little Poinsinet 
looked, and came back in tears. "But," resumed the magi- 
cian, — " ha, ha, ha ! — 1 know a way in which to disappoint 
the machinations of these fiendish magi." 

"Oh, my benefactor !— my great master! — for heaven's 
sake tell it ! " gasped Poinsinet. 

"Look you — it is this. A prey to enchantment and 
demoniac art all your life long, 3^ou have lived until your 
present age perfectl}' satisfied ; nay, absolutely vain of a 



LITTLE POINSINET. 185 

person the most singularly hideous that ever walked the 
earth ! " 

" Zs it ? " whispered Poinsinet. ' ' Indeed and indeed I didn't 
think it so bad ! " 

"He acknowledges it! he acknowledges it!" roared the 
magician. "Wretch, dotard, owl, mole, miserable buzzard! 
I have no reason to tell thee now that th3' form is monstrous, 
that children cry, that cowards turn pale, that teeming matrons 
shudder to behold it. It is not thy fault that thou art thus 
ungainly : but wherefore so blind ? wherefore so conceited of 
th3^self ! I tell thee, Poinsinet, that over ever}^ fresh instance 
of thy vanit}^ the hostile enchanters rejoice and triumph. As 
long as thou art blindly satisfied with th3'self ; as long as thou 
pretendest, in th}^ present odious shape, to win the love of 
aught above a negress ; na}', further still, until thou hast 
learned to regard that face, as others do, with the most intol- 
erable horror and disgust, to abuse it when thou seest it, to 
despise it, in short, and treat that miserable disguise in which 
the enchanters have wrapped thee with the strongest hatred 
and scorn, so long art thou destined to wear it." 

Such speeches as these, continually repeated, caused Poin- 
sinet to be fully convinced of his ugliness ; he used to go about 
in companies, and take eyevy opportunit}^ of inveighing against 
himself; he made verses and epigrams against himself; he 
talked about "that dwarf, Poinsinet;" "that buffoon, Poin- 
sinet;" "that conceited, hump-backed Poinsinet;" and he 
would spend hours before the glass, abusing his own face as 
he saw it reflected there, and vowing that he grew handsomer 
at every fresh epithet that he uttered. 

Of course the wags, from time to time, used to give him 
every possible encouragement, and declared that since this ex- 
ercise, his person was amazingly improved. The ladies, too, 
began to be so excessively fond of him, that the little fellow 
was obliged to caution them at last — for the good, as he said, 
of society ; he recommended them to draw lots, for he could 
not gratify them all ; but promised when his metamorphosis 
was complete, that the one chosen should become the happy 
Mrs. Poinsinet ; or, to speak more correctly, Mrs. Pol3'carte. 

I am sorry to say, however, that, on the score of gallantr}', 
Poinsinet was never quite convinced of the hideousness of his 
appearance. He had a number of adventures, accordingly, 
with the ladies, but strange to say, the husbands or fathers 
were always interrupting him. On one occasion he was made 
to pass the night in a slipper-bath full of water ; where, al- 



186 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

though he had all his clothes on, he declared that he nearly 
caught his death of cold. Another night, in revenge, the poor 
fellow 

" dans le simple appareil 

D'une beaute, qu'on vient d'arracher au sommeil," 

spent a number of hours contemplating the beauty of the moon 
on the tiles. These adventures are pretty numerous in the 
memoirs of M. Poinsinet ; but the fact is, that people in France 
were a great deal more philosophical in those days than the 
English are now, so that Poinsinet's loves must be passed over, 
as not being to our taste. His magician was a great diver, 
and told Poinsinet the most wonderful tales of his two min- 
utes' absence underwater. These two minutes, he said, lasted 
through a 3'ear, at least, which he spent in the compan}" of a 
naiad, more beautiful than Venus, in a palace more splendid than 
even Versailles. Fired b}' the description, Poinsinet used to dip, 
and dip, but he never was known to make an}^ mermaid ac- 
quaintances, although he fully believed that one day he should 
find such. 

The iiivi:/:Mj joke was brought to an end by Poinsinet's too 
great reliance on it ; for being, as we have said, of a very ten- 
der and sanguine disposition, he one day fell in love with a 
lad}^ in whose company he dined, and whom he actuall}^ pro- 
posed to embrace ; but the fair lady, in the hurry of the mo- 
ment, forgot to act up to the joke ; and instead of receiving 
Poinsinet's salute with calmness, grew indignant, called him an 
impudent httle scoundrel, and lent him a sound box on the ear. 
With this slap the invisibility of Poinsinet disappeared, the 
gnomes and genii left him, and he settled down into common life 
again, and was hoaxed only by vulgar means. 

A vast number of pages might be filled with narratives of 
the tricks that were played upon him ; but the}^ resemble each 
other a good deal, as may be imagined, and the chief point 
remarkable about them is the wondrous faith of Poinsinet. 
After being introduced to the Prussian ambassador at the Tuile- 
ries, he was presented to the Turkish envoy at the Place Ven- 
dome, who received him in state, surrounded by the officers of 
his establishment, all dressed in the smartest dresses that the 
wardrobe of the Opera Comique could furnish. 

As the greatest honor that could be done to him, Poinsinet 
was invited to eat, and a tray was produced, on which was a 
delicate dish prepared in the Turkish manner. This consisted 
of a reasonable quantity of mustard, salt, cinnamon and ginger, 



LITTLE POINSINET. 187 

nutmegs and cloves, with a couple of tablespoonfuls of caj^enne 
pepper, to give the whole a flavor ; and Poinsinet's countenance 
ma}^ be imagined when he introduced into his mouth a quantity 
of tills exquisite compound. 

" The best of the joke was," sa3^s the author who records so 
man}' of the pitiless tricks practised upon poor Poinsinet, " that 
the little man used to laugh at them afterwards himself with 
perfect good humor ; and lived in the daily hope that, from 
being the sufferer, he should become the agent in these hoaxes, 
and do to others as he had been done by." Passing, therefore, 
one day, on the Pont Neuf, with a friend, who had been one 
of the greatest performers, the latter said to him, "Poinsinet, 
my good fellow, thou hast suffered enough, and thy sufferings 
have made thee so wise and cunning, that thou art worth}' of 
entering among the initiated, and hoaxing in thy turn." Poin- 
sinet was charmed ; he asked when he should be initiated, and 
how? It was told him that a moment would suffice, and that 
the ceremon}' might be performed on the spot. At this news, 
and according to order, Poinsinet flung himself straightwaj' on 
his knees in the kennel ; and the other, drawing his sword, 
solemnl}^ initiated him into the sacred order of jokers. From 
that day the little man believed himself received into the so- 
ciety ; and to this having brought him, let us bid him a respect- 
ful adieu. 



THE DEVIL'S WAGER 



It was the hour of the night when there be none stirring 
save church3^ard ghosts — when all doors are closed except the 
gates of graves, and all e3^es shut but the e3'es of wicked men. 

When there is no sound on the earth except the ticking of 
the grasshopper, or the croaking of obscene frogs in the poole. 

And no light except that of the blinking starres, and the 
wicked and devilish wills-o'-the-wisp, as they gambol among 
the marshes, and lead good men astra3'e. 

When there is nothing moving in heaven except the owle, 
as he flappeth along lazil3^ ; or the magician, as he rides on his 
infernal broomsticke, whistling through the aire hke the arrowes 
of a Yorkshire archere. 

It was at this hour (namely, at twelve o'clock of the night,) 
that two beings went winging through the black clouds, and 
holding converse with each other. 

Now the first was Mercurius, the messenger, not of gods 
(as the heathens feigned), but of daemons; and the second, 
with whom he held compan3% was the soul of Sir Roger de Rollo, 
the brave knight. Sir Roger was Count of Chauchign3', in 
Champagne ; Seigneur of Santerre, Villacerf and aultre lieux. 
But the great die as well as the humble ; and nothing remained 
of brave Rodger now, but his coffin and his deathless soul. 

And Mercurius, in order to keep fast the soul, his companion, 
had bound him round the neck with his tail ; which, when the 
soul was stubborn, he would draw so tight as to strangle him 
wellnigh, sticking into him the barbed point thereof; whereat 
the poor soul, Sir RoUo, would groan and roar lustil3'. 

Now they two had come together from the gates of purga- 
torie, being bound to those regions of fire and flame where poor 
sinners fry and roast in saecula saeculorum. 



THE DEVIL'S WAGER. 189 

" It is hard," said the poor Sir Rollo, as they went gUding 
through the clouds, " that I should thus be condemned for ever, 
and all for want of a single ave." 

" How, Sir Soul?" said the daemon. " You were on earth 
so wicked, that not one, or a million of aves, could suffice to 
keep from hell-flame a creature like thee ; but cheer up and be 
meny ; thou wilt be but a subject of our lord the Devil, as am 
1 ; and, perhaps, thou wilt be advanced to posts of honor, as 
am I also : " and to show his authoritie, he lashed with his tail 
the ribbes of the wretched Rollo. 

"Nevertheless, sinner as I am, one more ave would have 
saved me ; for my sister, who was Abbess of St. Mary of 
Chauchigny, did so prevail, b}" her pra^^er and good works, for 
my lost and wretched soul, that ever}^ day I felt the pains of 
purgatory decrease ; the pitchforks which, on m}^ first entry, 
had never ceased to vex and torment my poor carcass, were 
now not applied above once a week ; the roasting had ceased, 
the boiling had discontinued ; only a certain warmth was kept 
up, to remind me of my situation." 

" A gentle stewe," said the daemon. 

" Yea, trul}', I was but in a stew, and all from the effects 
of the pra3'ers of my blessed sister. But 3'esterda3% he who 
watched me in purgator}^ told me, that yet another pra3^er from 
m}' sister, and my bonds should be unloosed, and I, who am 
now a devil, should have been a blessed angel." 

"And the other ave?" said the daemon. 

" She died, sir — my sister died — death choked her in the 
middle of the pra3"er. " And hereat the wretched spirit began 
to weepe and whine piteously ; his salt tears falling over his 
beard, and scalding the tail of Mercurius the devil. 

"It is, in truth, a hard case," said the daemon; "but I 
know of no remed3' save patience, and for that you will have 
an excellent opportunit3' in your lodgings below." 

" But I have relations," said the Earl ; " m3^ kinsman Ran- 
dal, who has inherited my lands, will he not say a prayer for 
his uncle ? " 

" Thou didst hate and oppress him when living." 

" It is true ; but an ave is not much ; his sister, my niece, 
Matilda — " 

" You shut her in a convent, and hanged her lover." 

" Had I not reason? besides, has she not others?" 

" A dozen, without doubt." 

"And my brother, the prior?" 

'*A liege subject of my lord the Devil: he never opens 



190 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

his mouth, except to utter an oath, or to swallow a cup of 
wine." 

'' And 3'et, if but one of these would but say an ave for me, 
I should be saved." 

" Aves with them are rarse aves," replied Mercurius, wag- 
ging his tail right waggishl}' ; " and, what is more, I will lay 
thee any wager that not one of these will sa}- a prayer to save 
thee." 

" I would wager willingly," responded he of Chauehigny ; 
*' but what has a poor soul like me to stake ? " 

'' Ever}^ evening, after the day's roasting, my lord Satan 
giveth a cup of cold water to his servants ; I will bet thee thy 
water for a year, that none of the three will pra}^ for thee." 

'' Done ! " said Rollo. 

*' Done ! " said the daemon ; " and here, if I mistake not, is 
thy castle of Chauchign}^" 

Indeed, it was true. The soul, on looking down, perceived 
the tall towers, the courts, the stables, and the fair gardens of 
the castle. Although it was past midnight, there was a blaze 
of light in the banqueting-hall, and a lamp burning in the open 
window of the Lady Matilda. 

" With whom shall we begin? " said the daemon : " with the 
baron or the lady ? " 

" With the lady, if you will." 

"Be it so ; her window is open, let us enter." 

So they descended, and entered silently into Matilda's 
chamber. 

The young lady's eyes were fixed so intently on a little clock, 
that it was no wonder that she did not perceive the entrance of 
her two visitors. Her fair cheek rested on her white arm, 
and her white arm on the cushion of a great chair in which she 
sat, pleasantly supported by sweet thoughts and swan's down ; 
a lute was at her side, and a book of praj^ers lay under the table 
(for piety is always modest). Like the amorous Alexander, 
she sighed and looked (at the clock) — and sighed for ten 
minutes or more, when she softly breathed the word "Ed- 
ward ! " 

At this the soul of the Baron was wroth. " The jade is at 
her old pranks," said he to the devil ; and then addressing 
Matilda: " I pra}^ thee, sweet niece, turn th}^ thoughts for a 
moment from that villanous page, Edward, and give them to 
thine affectionate uncle." 

When she heard the voice, and saw the awful apparition of 



THE DEVIL'S WAGER. 191 

her uncle (for a year's sojourn in purgatory had not increased 
the comeliness of his appearance) , she started, screamed, and 
of course fainted. 

But the devil Mercurius soon restored her to her^lf. 
" What's o'clock? " said she, as soon as she had recovered from 
her fit : " is he come ? " 

" Not thy lover, Maude, but thine uncle — that is, his soul. 
For the love of heaven, Usten to me : I have been frying in pur- 
gatory for a year past, and should have been in heaven but for 
the want of a single ave." 

" I will say it for thee to-morrow, uncle." 

"To-night, or never." 

" Well, to-night be it : " and she requested the devil Mer- 
curius to give her the prayer-book from under the table ; but he 
had no sooner touched the holy book than he dropped it with a 
shriek and a yell. " It was hotter," he said, " than his master 
Sir Lucifer's own particular pitchfork." And the lady was forced 
to begin her ave without the aid of her missal. 

At the commencement of her devotions the daemon retired, 
and carried with him the anxious soul of poor Sir Eoger de 
RoUo. 

The lady knelt down — she sighed deeply ; she looked again 
at the clock, and began — 

" Ave Maria." 

When a lute was heard under the window, and a sweet voice 
singing — 

"Hark!" said Matilda. 



" Now the toils of day are over, 
And the sun hath sunk to rest, 
Seeking, like a fiery lover, 
The bosom of the blushing west — 

" The faithful night keeps watch and ward, 
Raising the moon, her silver shield, 
And summoning the stars to guard 
The slumbers of my fair Mathilde ! " 

"For mercy's sake!" said Sir Rollo, "the ave first, and 
next the song." 

So Matilda again dutifully betook her to her devotions, and 
began — 

" Ave Maria gratia plena ! " but the music began again, and 
the prayer ceased of course. 



192 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

" The faithful night ! Now all things lie 
Hid by her mantle dark and dim, 
In pious hope I hitJier hie, 
And humbly chant mine ev'ning hymn. 

"^Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine ! 
(For never holy pilgrim kneel'd, 
Or wept at feet more pure than thine). 
My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde! " 

" Virgin love ! " said the Baron. " Upon my soul, this is 
too bad ! " and he thought of the lady's lover whom he had 
caused to be hanged. 

But she only thought of him who stood singing at her win- 
dow. 

"Niece Matilda ! " cried Sir Roger, agonizedly, " wilt thou 
listen to the lies of an impudent page, whilst thine uncle is 
waiting but a dozen words to make him happy ? " 

At this Matilda grew angry : " Edward is neither impudent 
nor a liar, Sir Uncle, and I will listen to the end of the song." 

" Come away," said Mercurius ; "he hath yet got' wield, 
field, sealed, congealed, and a dozen other rhymes beside ; and 
after the song will come the supper." 

So the poor soul was obliged to go ; while the lady Ustened, 
and the page sung away till morning. 

"My virtues have been my ruin," said poor Sir RoUo, as 
he and Mercurius slunk silently out of the window. " Had I 
hanged that knave Edward, as I did the page his predecessor, 
my niece would have sung mine ave, and I should have been 
b}^ this time an angel in heaven." 

" He is reserved for wiser purposes," responded the devil : 
" he will assassinate your successor, the lady Mathilde's brother ; 
and, in consequence, will be hanged. In the love of the lad}^ 
he will be succeeded by a gardener, who will be replaced by a 
monk, who will give wa}^ to an ostler, who will be deposed by, 
a Jew pedler, who shall, finally, yield to a noble earl, the future' 
husband of the fair Mathilde. So that, you see, instead of 
having one poor soul a-fr3ang, we may now look forward to a 
goodly harvest for our lord the Devil." * 

The soul of the Baron began to think that his companion 
knew too much for one who would make fair bets ; but there 
was no help for it; he would not, and he could not, cry off: 
and he prayed inwardly that the brother might be found more 
pious than the sister. 

But there seemed little chance of this. As they crossed the 



THE DEVIL'S WAGER. 193 

court, lackeys, with smoking dishes and full jugs, passed and 
repassed continually, although it was long past midnight. On 
entering the hall, they found Sir Randal at the head of a vast 
table, surrounded by a fiercer and more motley collection of 
individuals than had congregated there even in the time of Sir 
Rollo. The lord of the castle had signified that " it was his 
royal pleasure to be drunk," and the gentlemen of his train had 
obsequiously followed their master. Mercurius was delighted 
with the scene, and relaxed his usually rigid countenance into 
a bland and benevolent smile, which became him wonderfully. 

The entrance of Sir Roger, who had been dead about a year, 
and a person with hoofs, horns, and a tail, rather disturbed 
the hilarity of the company. Sir Randal dropped his cup of 
wine ; and Father Peter, the confessor, incontinently paused in 
the midst of a profane song, with which he was amusing the 
societ3\ 

" Holy Mother ! " cried he, " it is Sir Roger." 

" Alive ! " screamed Sir Randal. 

"No, my lord," Mercurius said; " Sir Roger is dead, but 
cometh on a matter of business ; and I have the honor to act 
as his counsellor and attendant." 

" Nephew," said Sir Roger, " the daemon saith justly ; I am 
come on a trifling affair, in which thy service is essential." 

" I will do anything, uncle, in my power." 

"Thou canst give me life, if thou wilt?" But Sir Randal 
looked ver}^ blank at this proposition. " I mean life spiritual, 
Randal," said Sir Roger ; and thereupon he explained to him 
the nature of the wager. 

Whilst he was telling his story, his companion Mercurius 
was playing all sorts of antics in the hall ; and, by his wit and 
fun, became so popular with this godless crew, that they lost all 
the fear which his first appearance had given them. The friar 
was wonderfully taken with him, and used his utmost eloquence 
and endeavors to convert the devil ; the knights stopped drink- 
ing to listen to the argument ; the men-at-arms forbore brawl- 
ing ; and the wicked little pages crowded round the two strange 
disputants, to hear their edifying discourse. The ghostly man, 
however, had little chance in the controversy, and certainly 
little learning to carry it on. Sir Randal interrupted him. 
" Father Peter," said he, " our kinsman is condemned for ever, 
for want of a single ave : wilt thou say it for him?" " Will- 
ingly, my lord," said the monk, " with my book ; " and accord- 
ingly he produced his missal to read, without which aid it 
appeared that the holy father could not manage the desired 

13 



194 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

pra3^er. But the crafty Mercurius had, by his devilish art, 
inserted a song in the place of the ave, so that Father Peter, 
instead of chanting an hymn, sang the following irreverent 
ditty : — 

" Some love the matin-chimes, which tell 

The hour of prayer to sinner : 
But better far's the mid-day bell, 

Which speaks the hour of dinner ; 
For when I see a smoking fish, 

Or capon drown 'd in gravy, 
Or noble haunch on silver dish, 

Full glad I sing mine ave. 

** My pulpit is an ale-house bench, 

Whereon I sit so jolly ; 
A smiling rosy country wench 

My saint and patron holy. 
I kiss her cheek so red and sleek, 

I press her ringlets wavy, 
And in her willing ear I speak 

A most religious ave. 

** And if I'm blind, yet heaven is kind, 

And holy saints forgiving ; 
For sure he leads a right good life 

Who thus admires good living. 
Above, they say, our flesh is air, 

Our blood celestial ichor : 
Oh, grant! mid all the changes there, 

They may not change our liquor ! " 



And with this pious wish the holy confessor tumbled under 
the table in an agony of devout drunkenness ; whilst the knights, 
the men-at-arms, and the wicked little pages, rang out the last 
verse with a most melodious and emphatic glee. " I am sony, 
fair uncle," hiccupped Sir Randal, " that, in the matter of the 
ave, we could not oblige thee in a more orthodox manner ; but 
the holy father has failed, and there is not another man in the 
hall who hath an idea of a prayer." 

" It is ray own fault," said Sir RoUo ; " for I hanged the last 
confessor." And he wished his nephew a surly good-night, as 
he prepared to quit the room. 

" Au revoir, gentlemen," said the devil Mercurius; and 
once more fixed his tail round the neck of his disappointed com- 
panion. 



THE DEVIL'S WAGER. 195 

The spirit of poor Rollo was sadly cast down ; the devil, on 
the contrary, was in high good humor. He wagged his tail 
with the most satisfied air in the world, and cut a hundred 
jokes •at the expense of his poor associate. On they sped, 
cleaving swiftly through the cold night winds, frightening the 
birds that were roosting in the woods, and the owls that were 
watching in the towers. 

In the twinkling of an e3^e, as it is known, devils can fly 
hundreds of miles : so that almost the same beat of the clock 
which left these two in Champagne, found them hovering over 
Paris. They dropped into the court of the Lazarist Convent, 
and winded their wa^^ through passage and cloister, until they 
reached the door of the prior's cell. 

Now the prior, RoUo's brother, was a wicked and malignant 
sorcerer; his time was spent in conjuring devils and doing 
wicked deeds, instead of fasting, scourging, and singing holy 
psalms : this Mercurius knew ; and he, therefore, was fully at 
ease as to the final result of his wager with poor Sir Roger. 

"You seem to be well acquainted with the road," said the 
knight. 

" I have reason," answered Mercurius, " having, for a long 
period, had the acquaintance of his reverence, your brother ; 
but 3'Ou have little chance with him." 

" And why ? " said Sir Rollo. 

" He is under a bond to my master, never to say a prayer, 
or else his soul and his body are forfeited at once." 

" Why, thou false and traitorous devil ! " said the enraged 
knight ; ' ' and thou knewest this when we made our wager ? " 

' ' Undoubtedly : do you suppose I would have done so had 
there been any chance of losing?" 

And with this they arrived at Father Ignatius's door. 

"Th}^ cursed presence threw a spell on my niece, and 
stopped the tongue of my nephew's chaplain ; I do believe that 
had I seen either of them alone, my wager had been won." 

"Certainly; therefore, I took good care to go with thee: 
however, thou mayest see the prior alone, if thou wilt ; and lo ! 
his door is open. I will stand without for five minutes, when 
it will be time to commence our journe3^" 

It was the poor Baron's last chance : and he entered his 
brother's room more for the five minutes' respite than from any, 
hope of success. 

Father Ignatius, the prior, was absorbed in magic calcula- 
tions : he stood in the middle of a circle of skulls, with no gar- 
ment except his long white beard, which reached to his knees ; 



196 THE PARTS SKETCH BOOK. 

he was waving a silver rod, and muttering imprecations in some 
horrible tongue. 

But Sir Rollo came forward and interrupted his incantation. 
"I am," said he, "the shade of thj^ brother Roger de Rollo; 
and have come, from pure brotherly love, to warn thee of thy 
fate." 

" Whence camest thou?" 

" From the abode of the blessed in Paradise," replied Sir 
Roger, who was inspired with a sudden thought ; " it was but 
five minutes ago that the Patron Saint of thy church told me of 
thy danger, and of thy wicked compact with the fiend. ' Go,' 
said he, ' to thy miserable brother, and tell him there is but one 
way b}^ which he ma}^ escape from paying the awful forfeit of 
his bond.'" 

"And how may that be?" said the prior; " the false fiend 
hath deceived me ; I have given him m}- soul, but have received 
no worldly benefit in return. Brother ! dear brother ! how may 
I escape ? " 

" I will tell thee. As soon as I heard the voice of blessed 
St. Mary Lazarus" (the worthy Earl had, at a pinch, coined 
the name of a saint), "I left the clouds, where, with other 
angels, I was seated, and sped hither to save thee. ' Thy 
brother,' said the Saint, ' hath but one day more to live, when 
he will become for all eternit}' the subject of Satan-; if he would 
escape, he must boldly break his bond, by saying an ave.' " 

" It is the express condition of the agreement," said the un- 
happ3^ monk, " I must say no prayer, or that instant I become 
Satan's, body and soul." 

"It is the express condition of the Saint," answered Roger, 
fiercely ; " pray, brother, pray, or thou art lost for ever." 

Sothe foolish monk knelt down, and devoutly sung out an 
ave. " Amen! " said Sir Roger, devoutly. 

" Amen ! " said Mercurius, as, suddenly, coming behind, he 
seized Ignatius by his long beard, and flew up with him to the 
top of the church-steeple. 

The monk roared, and screamed, and swore against his 
brother ; but it was of no avail : Sir Roger smiled kindly on 
him, and said, "Do not fret, brother; it must have come to 
this in a year or two." 

• And he flew alongside of Mercurius to the steeple-top : hut 
this time the devil had not his tail round his neck. ' ' I will let 
thee ofi" thy bet," said he to the daemon ; for he could aflford, 
now, to be generous. 

" I believe, my lord," said the daemon, politely, " that our 



THE DEVIL'S WAGER. 197 

ways separate here." Sir Roger sailed ga3'ly upwards : while 
Mercurius having bound the miserable monk faster than ever, 
he sunk downwards to earth, and perhaps lower. Ignatius was 
heard roaring and screaming as the devil dashed him against 
the iron spikes and buttresses of the church. 

The moral of this story will be given in the second edition. 



MADAME SAND AND THE NEW 
APOCALYPSE. 



I don't know an impression more curious than that which is 
formed in a foreigner's mind, who has been absent from this 
place for two or three years, returns to it, and beholds the 
change which has taken place, in the meantime, in French 
fashions and wa3'S of thinking. Two years ago, for instance, 
when I left the capital, I left the 3"oung gentlemen of France 
with their hair brushed en toupet in front, and the toes of their 
])oots round ; now the boot- toes are pointed, and the hair 
combed flat, and, parted in the middle, falls in ringlets on the 
fashionable shoulders ; and, in like manner, with books as with 
boots, the fashion has changed considerabty, and it is not a 
little curious to contrast the old modes with the new. Absurd 
as was the literarj' dandyism of those da3^s, it is not a whit less 
absurd now : onl}^ the manner is changed , and our versatile 
Frenchmen have passed from one caricature to another. 

The revolution ma}^ be called a caricature of freedom, as the 
empire was of glory ; and what the}' borrow from foreigners 
undergoes the same process. The}' take top-boots and mack- 
intoshes from across the water, and caricature our fashions ; 
they read a little, very little, Shakespeare, and caricature oui- 
poetry : and while in David's time art and religion were only a 
caricature of Heathenism, now, on the contrary, these two com- ■ 
modities are imported from Germany ; and distorted caricatures 
originally, are still farther distorted on passing the frontier. 

I trust in heaven that German art and religion will take 
no hold in our country (where there is a fund of roast-beef that 
will expel any such humbug in the end) ; but these sprightly 
Frenchmen have relished the mystical doctrines mightily ; and 
having watched the Germans, with their sanctified looks, and 



MADAME SAND. 199 

quaint imitations of the old times, and mysterious transcendental 
talk, are aping many of their fashions ; as well and solemnly as 
they can : not very solemnly, God wot ; for I think one should 
always prepare to grin when a Frenchman looks particularly 
grave, being sure that there is something false and ridiculous 
lurking under the owl-like solemnity. 

When last in Paris, we were in the midst of what was called 
a Catholic reaction. Artists talked of faith in poems and pic- 
tures ; churches were built here and there ; old missals were 
copied and purchased ; and numberless portraits of saints, 
with as much gilding about them as ever was used in ,the fif- 
teenth century, appeared in churches, ladies' boudoirs, and 
picture-shops. One or two fashionable preachers rose, and 
were eagerly followed ; the very j^outh of the schools gave up 
their pipes and billiards for some time, and flocked in crowds 
to Notre Dame, to sit under the feet of Lacordaire. 1 went 
to visit the Church of Notre Dame de Lorette yesterday, which 
was finished in the heat of this Catholic rage, and was not a 
little struck by the similarity of the place to the worship cele- 
brated in it, and the admirable manner in which the architect 
has caused his work to express the public feeling of the mo- 
ment. It is a pretty little bijou of a church : it is supported 
b}' sham marble pillars ; it has a gaudy ceiling of blue and gold, 
which will look very well for some time ; and is filled with 
gaudy pictures and carvings, in the ygyj pink of the mode. 
The congregation did not offer a bad illustration of the present 
state of Catholic reaction. Two or three stray people were at 
prayers ; there was no service ; a few countrymen and idlers 
were staring about at the pictures ; and the Swiss, the paid 
guardian of the place, was comfortably and appropriately 
asleep on his bench at the door. I am inclined to think the 
famous reaction is over : the students have taken to their Sun- 
daj- pipes and billiards again ; and one or two cafes have been 
established, within the last 3^ear, that are ten times handsomer 
than Notre Dame de Lorette. 

However, if the immortal Gorres and the German m5^stics 
have had their day, there is the immortal Gothe, and the Pan- 
theists ; and I incline to think that the fashion has set very 
strongly in their favor. Voltaire and the Encyclopsedians are 
voted, now, harhares, and there is no term of reprobation strong 
enough for heartless Humes and Helvetiuses, who lived but to 
destroy, and who only thought to doubt. Wretched as Vol- 
taire's sneers and puns are, I think there is something more 
manl}^ and earnest even in them, than in the present muddy 



200 THE PARTS SKETCH BOOK. 

French transcendentalism. Pantheism is the word now ; one 
and all have begun to eprouver the hesoin of a religious senti- 
ment ; and we are deluged with a host of gods accordingly. 
Monsieur de Balzac feels himself to be inspired ; Victor Hugo 
is a god ; Madame Sand is a god ; that tawdrj' man of genius, 
Jules Janin, who writes theatrical reviews for the Dehats^ has 
divine intimations ; and there is scarce a beggarl}', beardless 
scribbler of poems and prose, but tells 3'ou, in his preface, of 
the saintete of the sacerdoce litter aire ; or a dirty student, suck- 
ing tobacco and beer, and reeling home with a grisette from 
the chaumiere, who is not convinced of the necessity of a new 
"Messianism," and will hiccup, to such as will listen, chapters 
of his own drunken Apocalypse. Surely, the negatives of the 
old days were far less dangerous than the assertions of the 
present ; and you ma}^ fancy what a religion that must be, 
which has such high priests. 

There is no reason to trouble the reader with details of the 
lives of many of these prophets and expounders of new revela- 
tions. Madame Sand, for instance, I do not know personally, 
and can only speak of her from report. True or false, the his- 
tory, at any rate, is not very edifying ; and so may be passed 
over : but, as a certain great philosopher told us, in very hum- 
ble and simple words, that we are not to expect to gather 
grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles, we ma}^ at least, 
demand, in all persons assuming the character of moralist or 
philosopher — order, soberness, and regularity' of life; for we 
are apt to distrust the intellect that we fanc}" can be swayed 
b}^ circumstance or passion ; and we know how circumstance and 
passion wnV/ sway the intellect : how mortified vanity will form 
excuses for itself; and how temper turns angrily upon con- 
science, that reproves it. How often have we called our 
judge our enem}^, because he has given sentence against us ! 

— How often have we called the right wrong, because the 
right condemns us ! And in the lives of many of the bitter 
foes of the Christian doctrine, can we find no personal reason 
for their hostility? The men in Athens said it was out of re- 
gard for religion that they murdered Socrates ; but we have 
had time, since then, to reconsider the verdict ; and Socrates' 
character is pretty pure now, in spite of the sentence and the 
jury of those days. 

The Parisian philosophers will attempt to explain to you 
the changes through which Madame Sand's mind has passed, 

— the initiatory trijils, labors, and suflferings which she has 
had to go through, — before she reached her present happy 



MADAME SAND. 201 

state of mental illumination. She teaches her wisdom in para- 
bles, that are, mostly, a couple of volumes long; and began, 
first, b}^ an eloquent attack on marriage, in the charming novel 
of " Indiana." " Pity," cried she, " for the poor woman who, 
united to a being whose brute force makes him her superior, 
should venture to break the bondage which is imposed on her, 
and allow her heart to be free." 

In support of this claim of pity, she writes two volumes of 
the most exquisite prose. What a tender, suffering creature 
is Indiana ; how little her husband appreciates that gentleness 
which he is crushing by his t3Tanny and brutal scorn ; how 
natural it is that, in the absence of his sympathj', she, poor 
clinging confiding creature, should seek elsewhere for shelter ; 
how cautious should we be, to call criminal — to visit with too 
heav}' a censure — an act which is one of the natural impulses 
of a tender heart, that seeks but for a worthy object of love. 
But why attempt to tell the tale of beautiful Indiana? Madame 
Sand has written it so well, that not the hardest-hearted hus- 
band in Christendom can fail to be touched by her sorrows, 
though he ma}' refuse to listen to her argument. Let us grant, 
for argument's sake, that the laws of marriage, especially the 
French laws of marriage, press very cruellj' upon unfortunate 
women. 

But if one wants to have a question of this, or any nature, 
honestly argued, it is better, surely, to applj^ to an indiflferent 
person for an umpire. For instance, the stealing of pocket- 
handkerchiefs or snuflT-boxes may or may not be vicious ; but 
if we, who have not the wit, or will not take the trouble to 
decide the question ourselves, want to hear the real rights 
of the matter, we should not, surely, apply to a pickpocket to 
know what he thought on the point. It might naturall}' be 
presumed that he would be rather a prejudiced person — par- 
ticularly as his reasoning, if successful, might get him out of 
gaol. This is a homely illustration, no doubt; all we would 
urge by it is, that Madame Sand having, according to the 
French newspapers, had a stern husband, and also having, 
according to the newspapers, sought " sj^mpathy " elsewhere, 
her arguments may be considered to be somewhat partial, and 
received with some little caution. 

And tell us who have been the social reformers ? — the 
haters, that is, of the present system, according to which we 
live, love, many, have children, educate them, and endow 
them — are they pure themselves ? I do believe not. one ; and 
directly a man begins to quarrel with the world and its ways, 



202 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

and to lift up, as he calls it, the voice of his despair, and 
preach passionately to mankind about this tyranny of faith, 
customs, laws ; if we examine what the personal character of 
the preacher is, we begin pretty clearly to understand the 
value of the doctrine. Any one can see why Rousseau should 
be such a whimpering reformer, and Byron such a free and 
easy misanthropist, and wh}' our accomplished Madame Sand, 
who has a genius and eloquence inferior to neither, should take 
the present condition of mankind (French-kind) so much to 
heart, and labor so hotly to set it right. 

After "Indiana" (which, we presume, contains the lady's 
notions upon wives and husbands) came " Valentine," which 
ma}' be said to exhibit her doctrine, in regard of 3'oung men 
and maidens, to whom the author would accord, as we fanc}^, 
the same tender license. "Valentine" was followed by 
" Lelia," a wonderful book indeed, gorgeous in eloquence, 
and rich in magnificent poetry : a regular tops3'turv3'fication 
of moralit}', a thieves' and prostitutes' apotheosis. This book 
has received some late enlargements and emendations b}^ the 
writer ; it contains her notions on morals, which, as we have 
said, are so peculiar, that, alas ! they only can be mentioned 
here, not particularized : but of ' ' Spiridion " we may write a 
few pages, as it is her rehgious manifesto. 

In this work, the lad}' asserts her pantheistical doctrine, and 
openly attacks the received Christian creed. She declares it 
to be useless now, and unfitted to the exigencies and the de- 
gree of culture of the actual world ; and, though it would be 
hardly worth while to combat her opinions in due form, it is, 
at least, worth while to notice them, not merely from the ex- 
traordinary eloquence and genius of the woman herself, but 
because they express the opinions of a great number of people 
besides : for she not only produces her own thoughts, but imi- 
tates those of others very eagerly ; and one finds in her writ- 
ings so much similarity with others, or, in others, so much 
resemblance to her, that the book before us may pass for the 
expression of the sentiments of a certain French party. 

" Dieu est mort," says another writer of the same class, and 
of great genius too. — "Dieu est mort," writes Mr. Henry 
Heine, speaking of the Christian God ; and he adds, in a dar- 
ing figure of speech, — " N'entendez-vous pas sonner la Clo- 
chette? — on porte les sacremens k un Dieu qui se meurt ! " 
Another of the pantheist poetical philosophers, Mr. Edgar 
Quinet, has a poem, in which Christ and the Virgin Mary are 
made to die similarly, and the former is classed with Prome- 



MADAME SAND. 203 

theus. This book of " Spiridion " is a continuation of the 
theme, and perhaps j^ou will listen to some of the author's 
expositions of it. 

It must be confessed that the controversialists of the present 
day have an eminent advantage over their predecessors in the 
days of folios ; it required some learning then to write a book, 
and some time, at least — for the very labor of writing out a 
thousand such vast pages would demand a considerable period. 
But now, in the age of duodecimos, the system is reformed alto- 
gether : a male or female controversialist draws upon his im- 
agination, and not his learning ; makes a story instead of an 
argument, and, in the course of 150 pages (where the preacher 
has it all his own way) will prove or disprove you anything. 
And, to our shame be it said, we Protestants have set the 
example of this kind of proselj^tism — those detestable mixtures 
of truth, lies, false sentiment, false reasoning, bad grammar, 
correct and genuine philanthropy and piety — I mean our relig- 
ious tracts, which any woman or man, be he ever so sill}', can 
take upon himself to write, and sell for a penny, as if religious 
instruction were the easiest thing in the world. We, I say, 
have set the example in this kind of composition, and all the 
sects of the earth will, doubtless, speedil}^ follow it. I can 
point 3^ou out blasphemies in famous pious tracts that are as 
dreadful as those above mentioned ; but this is no place for 
such discussions, and we had better return to Madame Sand. 
As Mrs Sherwood expounds, by means of many touching his- 
tories and anecdotes of little boys and girls, her notions of 
church history, church catechism, church doctrine ; — as the 
author of " Father Clement, a Roman Catholic Story," demol- 
ishes the stately structure of eighteen centuries, the mighty and 
beautiful Roman Catholic faith, in whose bosom repose so many 
saints and sages, — by the means of a three-and-sixpenny duo- 
decimo volume, which tumbles over the vast fabric, as David's 
pebble-stone did Goliath ; — as, again, the Roman Catholic 
author of " Geraldine " falls foul of Luther and Calvin, and 
drowns the awful echoes of their tremendous protest b}' the 
sounds of her little half-crown trumpet : in like manner, by 
means of prett}^ sentimental tales, and cheap apologues, Mrs. 
Sand proclaims her truth — that we need a new Messiah, and 
that the Christian religion is no more ! awful, awful name 
of God ! Light unbearable ! Mystery unfathomable ! Vastness 
immeasurable ! — Who are these who come forward to explain 
the mystery, and gaze unblinking into the depths of the light, 
and measure the immeasurable vastness to a hair? O name. 



204 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

that God's people of old did fear to utter ! O light, that God's 
prophet would have perished had he seen ! Who are these that 
are now so familiar with it? — Women, truly ; for the most part 
weak women — weak in intellect, weak mayhap in spelling and 
grammar, but marvellously strong in faith : — women, who step 
down to the people with stately step and voice of authority, and 
deliver fcheir twopenny tablets, as if there were some Divine 
authority for the wretched nonsense recorded there ! 

With regard to the spelling and grammar, our Parisian 
Pythoness stands, in the goodly fellowship, remarkable. Her 
style is a noble, and, as far as a foreigner can judge, a strange 
tongue, beautifully rich and pure. She has a very exuberant 
imagination, and, with it, a very chaste style of expression. 
She never scarcety indulges in declamation, as other modern 
prophets do, and yet her sentences are exquisitely melodious 
and full. She seldom runs a thought to death (after the manner 
of some prophets, who, when they catch a little one, toy with 
it until the^- kiU it), but she leaves you at the end of one of her 
brief, rich, melancholy sentences, with plenty of food for future 
cogitation. I can't express to j^ou the charm of them ; they 
seem to me like the sound of countr}^ bells — provoking I don't 
know what vein of musing and meditation, and falling sweetly 
and sadly on the ear. 

This wonderful power of language must have been felt by 
most people who read Madame Sand's first books, '' Valentine" 
and '' Indiana: " in " Spiridion " it is greater, I think, than 
ever ; and for those who are not afraid of the matter of the 
novel, the manner will be found most delightful. The author's 
intention, I presume, is to describe, in a parable, her notions 
of the downfall of the Catholic church ; and, indeed, of the 
whole Christian scheme : she places her hero in a monastery in 
Itaty, where, among the characters about him, and the events 
which occur, the particular tenets of Madame Dudevant's doc- 
trine are not inaptly laid down. Innocent, faithful, tender- 
hearted, a 3'oung monk, b}" name Angel, finds himself, when he 
has pronounced his vows, an object of aversion and hatred to 
the godly men whose lives he so much respects, and whose love 
he would make an}' sacrifice to win. After enduring much, he 
flings himself at the feet of his confessor, and begs for his sym- 
pathy and counsel ; but the confessor spurns him away, and 
accuses him, fiercely, of some unknown and terrible crime — 
bids him never return to the confessional until contrition has 
touched his heart, and the stains which sully his spirit are, by 
sincere repentance, washed away. 



MADAME SAND. 205 

"Thus speaking," saj's Angel, "Father Hegesippns tore 
away his robe, which I was holding in my supplicating hands. 
In a sort of wildness I still grasped it tighter ; he pushed me 
fiercel}^ from him, and I fell with my face towards the ground. 
He quitted me, closing violently after him the door of the 
sacristy, in which this scene had passed. I was left alone in 
the darkness. Either from the violence of mj^ fall, or the excess 
of my grief, a vein had burst in m}^ throat, and a haemorrhage 
ensued. I had not the force to rise ; I felt my senses rapidly 
sinking, and, presentl}', I lay stretched on the pavement, un- 
conscious, and bathed in my blood." 

[Now the wonderful part of the story begins.] 

' ' I know not how much time I passed in this way. As I 
came to mj^self I felt an agreeable coolness. It seemed as if 
some harmonious air was playing round about me, stirring gently 
in my hair, and drying the drops of perspiration on my brow. 
It seemed to approach, and then again to withdraw, breathing 
now softly and sweetly in the distance, and now returning, as 
if to give me strength and courage to rise. 

' ' I would not, however, do so as yet ; for I felt myself, as I 
lay, under the influence of a pleasure quite new to me ; and 
listened, in a kind of peaceful aberration, to the gentle murmurs 
of the summer wind, as it breathed on me through the closed 
window-blinds above me. Then I fancied I heard a voice that 
spoke to me from the end of the sacristy : it whispered so low 
that I could not catch the words. I remained motionless, and 
gave it my whole attention. At last I heard, distinctly, the 
following sentence : — ^Spirit of Truth, raise up these victims of 
ignorance and imposture: ' Father Hegesippus,' said I, in a 
weak voice, ' is that 3'ou who are returning to me? ' But no 
one answered. I lifted myself on my hands and knees, I lis- 
tened again, but I heard nothing. I got up completely, and 
looked about me: I had fallen so near to the only door in 
this little room, that none, after the departure of the confessor, 
could have' entered it without passing over me ; besides, the 
door was shut, and only opened from the inside by a strong 
lock of the ancient shape. I touched it, and assured myself 
that it was closed. I was seized with terror, and, for some 
moments, did not dare to move. Leaning against the door, I 
looked round, and endeavored to see into the gloom in which 
the angles of the room were enveloped. A pale light, which 
came from an upper window, half closed, was seen to be trem- 
bling in the midst of the apartment. The wind beat the shutter 
to and fro, and enlarged or diminished the space through which 



206 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

the light issued. The objects which were in this half light — 
the praying-desk, surmounted by its skull — a few books lying 
on the benches — a surplice hanging against the wall — seemed 
to move with the shadow of the foliage that the air agitated be- 
hind the window. When I thought I was alone, I felt ashamed 
of my former timidit}^ ; I made the sign of the cross, and was 
about to move forward in order to open the shutter altogether, 
but a deep sigh came from the praying-desk, and kept me nailed 
to my place. And yet I saw the desk distinctl}' enough to be 
sure that no person was near it. Then I had an idea which 
gave me courage. Some person, I thought, is behind the shut- 
ter, and has been saying his prayers outside without thinking 
of me. But who would be so bold as to express such wishes 
and utter such a prayer as I had just heard? 

" Curiosit}^, the only passion and amusement permitted in a 
cloister, now entirely possessed me, and I advanced towards 
the window. But I had not made a step when a black shadow, 
as it seemed to me, detaching itself from the praying-desk, 
traversed the room, directing itself towards the window, and 
passed swiftly by me. The movement was so rapid that I had 
not time to avoid what seemed a body advancing towards me, 
and my fright was so great that I thought I should faint a 
second time. But I felt nothing, and, as if the shadow had 
passed through me, I saw it suddenly disappear to mj^ left. 

"I rushed to the window, I pushed back the blind with 
precipitation, and looked round the sacrist}^ : I was there, 
entirel}'- alone. I looked into the garden — it was deserted, and 
the mid-day wind was wandering among the flowers. I took 
courage, I examined all the corners of the room ; I looked be- 
hind the praying-desk, which was very large, and I shook all 
the sacerdotal vestments which were hanging on the walls, 
ever^'tbing was in its natural condition, and could give me no ex- 
planation of what had just occurred. The sight of all the blood 
I had lost led me to fancy that my brain had, probably, been 
weakened by the haemorrhage, and that I had been a prey to 
some delusion. I retired to my cell, and remained shut up 
there until the next day." 

I don't know whether the reader has been as much struck 
with the above mysterious scene as the writer has ; but the fan- 
c}'' of it strikes me as very fine ; and the natural supernaturalness 
is kept up in the best style. The shutter swaying to and fro, 
the fitful light appearing over the furniture of the room, and giv- 
ing it an air of strange motion — the awful shadow which passed 
through the body of the timid young novice — are surely very 



MADAME SAND. 207 

finel}' painted. "I rushed to the shutter, and flung it back: 
there was no one in the sacrist3\ I looked into the garden ; it 
was deserted, and the mid-day wind was roaming among the 
flowers." The dreariness is wonderfull}- described : only the 
poor pale boj^ looking eagerly out from the window of the sac- 
ristj", and the hot mid-day wind walking in the solitary garden. 
How skilfull}' is each of these little strokes dashed in, and how 
well do all together combine to make a picture ! But we must 
have a little more about Spiridion's wonderful visitant. 

" As I entered into the garden, I stepped a httle on one side, 
to make way for a person whom I ^saw before me. He was a 
3^oung man of surprising beaut}^, and attired in a foreign cos- 
tume. Although dressed in the large black robe which the su- 
periors of our order wear, he had, underneath, a short jacket of 
fine cloth, fastened round the waist b}' a leathern belt, and a 
buckle of silver, after the manner of the old German students. 
Like them, he wore, instead of the sandals of our monks, short 
tight boots ; and over the collar of his shirt, which fell on his 
shoulders, and was as white as snow, hung, in rich golden curls, 
the most beautiful hair I ever saw. He was tall, and his elegant 
posture seemed to reveal to me that he was in the habit of com- 
manding. With much respect, and yet uncertain, I half saluted 
him. He did not return my salute ; but he smiled on me with 
so benevolent an air, and at the same time, his e3'es severe and 
blue, looked towards me with an expression of such compassion- 
ate tenderness, that his features have never since then passed 
away from my recollection. I stopped, hoping he would speak 
to me, and persuading myself, from the majest}' of his aspect, 
that he had the power to protect me ; but the monk, who was 
walking behind me, and who did not seem to remark him in the 
least, forced him brutally to step aside from the walk, and pushed 
me so rudelj^ as almost to cause me to fall. Not wishing to 
engage in a quarrel with this coarse monk, I moved away ; but, 
after having taken a few steps in the garden, I looked back, and 
saw the unknown still gazing on me with looks of the tenderest 
solicitude. The sun shone full upon him, and made his hair 
look radiant. He sighed, and lifted his fine eyes to heaven, as 
if to invoke its justice in my favor, and to call it to bear witness 
to my misery ; he turned slowly towards the sanctuary, entered 
into the quire, and was lost, presently, in the shade. I longed 
to return, spite of the monk, to follow this noble stranger, and 
to tell him my aflftictions ; but who was he, that I imagined he 
would Usten to them, and cause them to cease? I felt, even 



208 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

while his softness drew me towards him, that he still inspired 
me with a kind of fear ; for I saw in his physiognomy^ as much 
austerit}' as sweetness." 

Who was he ? — we shall see that. He was somebody verj- 
mysterious indeed ; but our author has taken care, after the 
manner of her sex, to make a ver^' pretty fellow of him, and to 
dress him in the most becoming costumes possible. 

The individual in tight boots and a rolling collar, with the 
copious golden locks, and the solemn blue eyes, who had just 
gazed on Spiridion, and inspired him with such a feeling of ten- 
der awe, is a much more important personage than the reader 
might suppose at first sight. This beautiful, mysterious, dandy 
ghost, whose costume, with a true woman's coquetry, Madame 
Dudevant has so rejoiced to describe — is her religious type, a 
m3'stical representation of Faith struggling up towards Truth, 
through superstition, doubt, fear, reason, — in tight inexpress- 
ibles, with " a belt such as is worn b}' the old German students." 
You will pardon me for treating such an awful person as this 
somewhat lightl}' ; but there is always, I think, such a dash of 
the ridiculous in the French sublime, that the critic should try 
and do justice to both, or he may fail in giving a fair account of 
either. This character of Hebronius, the type of Mrs. Sand's 
convictions — if convictions they ma}' be called — or, at least, 
the allegory under which her doubts are represented, is, in parts, 
very finely drawn ; contains many passages of truth, very deep 
and touching, by the side of others so entirelj' absurd and unrea- 
sonable, that the reader's feelings are continually swaying be- 
tween admiration and something very like contempt — alwa3's 
in a kind of wonder at the strange mixture before him. But let 
us hear Madame Sand : — 

"Peter Hebronius," says our author, "was not originally 
so named. His real name was Samuel. He was a Jew, and 
born in a little village in the neighborhood of Innspriick. His 
family, which possessed a considerable fortune, left him, in his 
early youth, completely free to his own pursuits. From infancy 
he had shown that these were serious. He loved to be alone ; 
and passed his da,ys, and sometimes his nights, wandering 
among the mountains and valleys in the neighborhood of his 
birthplace. He would often sit by the brink of torrents, lis- 
tening to the voice of their waters, and endeavoring to pene- 
trate the meaning which Nature had hidden in those sounds. 
As he advanced in years, his inquiries became more curious 







MADAME SAND. 209 

and more grave. It was neeessar}^ that he should receive a 
soUd education, and his parents sent him to study in the Ger- 
man universities. Luther had been dead onl}^ a century, and 
his words and his memor}^ still lived in the enthusiasm of his 
disciples. The new faith was strengthening the conquests it had 
made ; the Reformers were as ardent as in the first daj-s, but 
their ardor was more enlightened and more measured. Prose- 
tytism was still carried on with zeal, and new converts were 
made every da}^ In listening to the morality and to the dog- 
mas which Lutheranism had taken from Catholicism, Samuel 
was filled with admiration. His bold and sincere spirit instantly 
compared the doctrines which were now submitted to him, with 
those in the belief of which he had been bred ; and, enlight- 
ened b}^ the comparison, was not slow to acknowledge the infe- 
riority of Judaism. He said to himself, that a religion made 
for a single people, to the exclusion of all others, — which only 
offered a barbarous justice for rule of conduct, — which neither 
rendered the present intelligible nor satisfactory, and left the 
future uncertain, — could not be that of noble souls and lofty 
intellects ; and that he could not be the God of truth who had 
dictated, in the midst of thunder, his vacillating will, and had 
called to the performance of his narrow wishes the slaves of a 
vulgar terror. Alwa3's conversant with himself, Samuel, who 
had spoken what he thought, now performed what he had spo- 
ken ; and, a year after his arrival in Germany, solemnly abjured 
Judaism, and entered into the bosom of the Reformed Church. 
As he did not wish to do things bj^ halves, and desired as 
much as was in him to put off the old man and lead a new 
life, he changed his name of Samuel to that of Peter. Some 
time passed, during which he strengthened and instructed him- 
self in his new religion. Very soon he arrived at the point of 
searching for objections to refute, and adversaries to overthrow. 
Bold and enterprising, he went at once to the strongest, and 
Bossuet was the first Catholic author that he set himself to 
readi He commenced with a kind of disdain ; believing that 
the faith which he had just embraced contained the pure truth, 
he despised all the attacks which could be made against it, and 
laughed already at the irresistible arguments which he was to 
find in the works of the Eagle of Meaux. But his mistrust 
and irony soon gave place to wonder first, and then to admira- 
tion : he thought that the cause pleaded by such an advocate 
must, at least, be respectable ; and, by a natural transition, 
came to think that great geniuses would only devote them- 
selves to that which was great. He then studied Catholicism 

14 



L^IO THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

with the same ardor and impartiality which he had bestowed on 
Lutheranism. He went into France to gain instruction from 
the professors of the Mother Church, as he had from the Doc- 
tors of the reformed creed in German}^ He saw Arnauld Fene- 
lon, that second Gregory of Nazianzen, and Bossuet himself. 
Guided by these masters, whose virtues made him appreciate 
their talents the more, he rapidl}' penetrated to the depth of the 
mysteries of the Catholic doctrine and moralit}^ He found, in 
this religion, all that had for him constituted the grandeur and 
beaut}' of Protestantism, — the dogmas of the Unity and Eter- 
nity of God, which the two religions had borrowed from Juda- 
ism ; and, what seemed the natural consequence of the last 
doctrine — a doctrine, however, to which the Jews had not 
arrived — the doctrine of the immortality of the soul ; free will 
in this life ; in the next, recompense for the good, and pun- 
ishment for the evil. He found, more pure, perhaps, and more 
elevated in Catholicism than in Protestantism, that sublime 
morality which preaches equahty to man, fraternit}^ love, 
charity, renouncement of self, devotion to your neighbor : 
Catholicism, in a word, seemed to possess that vast formula, 
and that vigorous unit}', which Lutheranism wanted. The lat- 
ter had, indeed, in its favor, the liberty of inquiry, which is 
also a want of the human mind ; and had proclaimed the au- 
thorit}' of individual reason : but it had so lost that which is 
the necessary basis and vital condition of all revealed religion 
— the principle of infallibility ; because nothing can live except 
in virtue of the laws that presided at its birth ; and, in con- 
sequence, one revelation cannot be continued and confirmed 
without another. Now, infallibility is nothing but revelation 
continued by God, or the Word, in the person of his vicars. 

" At last, after much reflection, Hebronius acknowledged 
himself entirely and sincerely convinced, and received baptism 
from the hands of Bossuet. He added the name of Spiridion 
to that of Peter, to signify that he had been twice enlightened by 
the Spirit. Resolved thenceforward to consecrate his life to the 
worship of the new God who had called him to Him, and to the 
study of His doctrines, he passed into Italy, and, with the aid of 
a large fortune, which one of his uncles, a Catholic like himself, 
had left to him, he built this convent where we now are." 

A friend of mine, who has just come from Ital}', says that 

he has there left Messrs. Sp r, P 1, and W. Dr d, 

who were the lights of the great church in Newman Street, who 



MADAME SAM). 211 

were themselves apostles, and declared and believed that every 
word of nonsense which fell from their lips was a direct spiritual 
intervention. These gentlemen have become Pusejites alreadj^ 
and are, my friend states, in the high way to Catholicism. 
Madame Sand herself was a Catholic some time since : having 
been converted to that faith along with M. N , of the Acad- 
emy of Music ; Mr. L , the pianoforte player ; and one or 

two other chosen individuals, by the famous Abbe de la M . 

Abbe de la M (so told me in the Diligence, a priest, who 

read his breviary and gossiped alternately ver}^ curiouslj- and 
pleasantly) is himself an dme perdue : the man spoke of his 
brother clergyman with actual horror ; and it certainly appears 
that the Abbe's works of conversion have not prospered ; for 
Madame Sand, having brought her hero (and herself, as we 
may presume) to the point of Cathohcism , proceeds directly- to 
dispose of that as she has done of Judaism and Protestantism, 
and will not leave, of the whole fabric of Christianitj^, a single 
stone standing. 

I think the fate of our English Newman Street apostles, and 

of M. de la M , the mad priest, and his congregation of mad 

converts, should be a warning to such of us as are inclined to 
dabble in religious speculations ; for, in them, as in all others, 
our flighty brains soon lose themselves, and we find our reason 
speedily lying prostrated at the mercy of our passions ; and I 
think that Madame Sand's novel of Spiridion may do a vast 
deal of good, and bears a good moral with it; though not such 
an one, perhaps, as our fair philosopher intended. For anj^- 
thing he learned, Samuel-Peter-Spiridion-Hebronius might have 
remained a Jew from the beginning to the end. Wherefore be 
in such a huny to set up new faiths? Wherefore, Madame 
Sand, try and be so preternaturall}^ wise? Wherefore be so 
eager to jump out of one religion, for the purpose of jumping 
into another? See what good this philosophical friskiness has 
done you, and on what sort of ground 3'ou are come at last. 
You are so wonderfully sagacious, that 3-ou flounder in mud at 
every step ; so amazingl}' clear-sighted, that 3-our e3'es cannot 
see an inch before 3'ou, having put out, with that extinguishing 
genius of 3'ours, every one of the lights that are sufficient for 
the conduct of common men. And for what? Let our friend 
Spiridion speak for himself. After setting up his convent, and 
filling it with monks, who entertain an immense respect for his 
wealth and genius, Father Hebronius, unanimously elected 
prior, gives himself up to further studies, and leaves his monks 
to themselves. Industrious and sober as they were, originall}', 



212 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

they grow quickly intemperate and idle ; and Hcbronins, who 
does not appear among his flock until he has freed himself of 
the Catholic religion, as he has of the Jewish and the Protest- 
ant, sees, with clisma}', the evil condition of his disciples, and 
regrets, too late, the precipitanc}' by which he renounced, then 
and for ever, Christianit}'. " But, as he had no new religion 
to adopt in its place, and as, grown more prudent and calm, he 
did not wish to accuse himself unnecessarilj', once more, of in- 
constancy and apostas}', he still maintained all the exterior 
forms of the worsliip which inwardly he had abjured. But it 
was not enough for him to have quitted error, it was necessar}- 
to discover truth. ButHebronius had well looked round to dis- 
cover it ; he coukl not find anything that resembled it. Then 
commenced for him a series of sufferings, unknown and terrible. 
Placed face to face with doubt, this sincere and religious spirit 
was frightened at its own solitude ; and as it had no other 
desire nor aiftn on earth than truth, and nothing else here below 
interested it, he lived absorbed in his own sad contemplations, 
looked ceaselessly into the vague that surrounded him like an 
ocean without bounds, and seeing the horizon retreat and 
retreat as ever he wished to near it. Lost in this immense 
uncertainty, he felt as if attacked by vertigo, and his thoughts 
whirled within his brain. Then, fatigued with his vain toils 
and hopeless endeavors, he would sink down depressed, un- 
manned, life-wearied, only living in the sensation of that silent 
grief which he felt and could not comprehend." 

It is a pity that this hapless Spiridion, so eager in his pas- 
sage from one creed to another, and so loud in his profession of 
the truth, wherever he fancied that he had found it, had not 
waited a little, before he avowed himself either Catholic or 
Protestant, and implicated others in errors and folhes which 
might, at least, have been confined to his own bosom, and tliere 
have lain comparatively harmless. In what a pretty' state, for 
instance, will Messrs. Dr d and P 1 have left their New- 
man Street congregation, who are still plunged in their old 
superstitions, from which their spiritual pastors and masters 
have been set free ! In what a state, too, do Mrs. Sand and 
her brother and sister philosophers. Templars, Saint Simonians, 
Fourierites, Lerouxites, or whatever the sect maj^ be, leave the 
unfortunate people who have listened to their doctrines, and 
who have not the opportunity, or the fiery versatility of belief, 
which carries their teachers from one creed to another, leaving 
only exploded lies and useless recantations behind them ! I 
wish the State would make a law that one individual should not 



MADAME SAND. 213 

be allowed to preach more than one doctrine in his life, or, at 
any rate, should be soundly corrected for every change of creed. 
How many charlatans would have been silenced, — how much 
conceit would have been kept within bounds, — how many fools, 
who are dazzled by fine sentences, and made drunk b}^ declama- 
tion, would have remained quiet and sober, in that quiet and 
sober way of faith which their fathers held before them. How- 
ever, the reader will be glad to learn that, after all his doubts 
and sorrows, Spiridion does discover the truth {the truth, what 
a wise Spiridion!) and some discretion with it; for, having 
found among his monks, who are dissolute, superstitious — and 
all hate him — one only being, Fulgentius, who is loving, can- 
did, and pious, he says to him, — "If you were like myself, if 
the first want of 3'our nature were, like mine, to know, I would, 
without hesitation, lay bare to 3'ou my entire thoughts. I would 
make you drink the cup of truth, which I myself have filled with 
so many tears, at the risk of intoxicating you with the draught. 
But it is not so, alas ! you are made to love rather than to know, 
and 3^our heart is stronger than jour intellect. You are at- 
tached to Catholicism, — I believe so, at least, — by bonds of 
sentiment which you could not break without pain, and which, 
if you were to break, the truth which 1 could la}' bare to you in 
return would not repay you for what you had sacrificed. In- 
stead of exalting, it would crush you, very likely. It is a food 
too strong for ordinary men, and which, when it does not re- 
vivify, smothers. I will not, then, reveal to 3'ou this doctrine, 
which is the triumph of my life, and the consolation of my last 
days ; because it might, perhaps, be for you only a cause of 

mourning and despair Of all the works which my long 

studies have produced, there is one alone which I have not given 
to the flames ; for it alone is complete. In that you will find 
me entire, and there lies the truth. And, as the sage has 
said 3^ou must not bury 3'our treasures in a well, I will not con- 
fide mine to the brutal stupidit3' of these monks. But as this 
volume should onl3^ pass into hands worthy to touch it, and be 
laid open for e3'es that are capable of comprehending its m3-s- 
teries, I shall exact from the reader one condition, which, at 
the same time, shall be a proof: I shall carry it with me to the 
tomb, in order that he who one day shall read it, ma3' have 
courage enough to brave the vain terrors of the grave, in search- 
ing for it amid the dust of my sepulchre. As soon as I am 

dead, therefore, place this writing on my breast Ah ! 

when the time comes for reading it, I think my withered heart 
will spring up again, as the frozen grass at the retuiii oi' 



214 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

the sun, and that, from the midst of its infinite transforma- 
tions, my spirit will enter into immediate communication with 
thine ! " 

Does not the reader long to be at this precious manuscript, 
which contains the truth ; and ought he not to be very much 
obliged to Mrs. Sand, for being so good as to print it for him? 
We leave all the story aside : how Fulgentius had not the spirit 
to read the manuscript, but left the secret to Alexis ; how 
Alexis, a stern old philosophical unbelieving monk as ever was, 
tried in vain to lift up the gravestone, but was taken with fever, 
and obliged to forego the discovery ; and how, finally. Angel, 
his disciple, a youth amiable and innocent as his name, was the 
destined person who brought the long-buried treasure to light. 
Trembling and delighted, the pair read this tremendous manu- 
script OF Spiridion. 

Will it be believed, that of all the dull, vague, windy docu- 
ments that mortal ever set eyes on, this is the dullest? If this 
be absolute truth, a quoi bon search for it, since we have long, 
long had the jewel in our possession, or since, at least, it has 
been held up as such b}^ ever}^ sham philosopher who has had a 
mind to pass otT his wares on the public? Hear Spiridion : — 

''How much have I wept, how much have I suffered, how 
much have I prayed, how much have I labored, before I under- 
stood the cause and the aim of my passage on this earth ! After 
man}' incertitudes, after much remorse, after many scruples, 1 
have comprehended that I ivas a martyr ! — But why ia\y martj'r- 
dom? said I ; what crime did I commit before I was born, thus 
to be condemned to labor and groaning, from the hour when I 
first saw the day up to that when I am about to enter into the 
night of the tomb ? 

"At last, by dint of imploring God — by dint of inquiry 
into the histor}' of man, a ray of the truth has descended on 
my brow, and tlie shadows of the past have melted from before 
m}- e3^es. I have lifted a corner of the curtain : I have seen 
enough to know that m}- life, like that of the rest of the human 
race, has been a series of necessar}' errors, yet, to speak more 
correctly, of incomplete truths, conducting, more or less slowly 
and directly, to absolute truth and ideal perfection. But when 
will they rise on the face of the earth — when will they issue 
from the bosom of the Divinity — those generations who shall 
salute the august countenance of Truth, and proclaim the reign 
of the ideal on earth? I see well how humauit}- marches, but 
I neither can see its cradle nor its apotheosis. Man seems to 



MADAME SA:N^D. 215 

me a transitory race, between the beast and the angel ; but I 
know not how many centuries have been required, that he might 
pass from the state of brute to the state of man^ and I cannot tell 
hoio many ages are necessary that he may pass from the state of 
man to the state of angel! 

" Yet I hope, and I feel within me, at the approach of death, 
that which warns me that great destinies await humanity. In 
this life all is over for me. Much have I striven, to advance 
but little : I have labored without ceasing, and have done almost 
nothing. Yet, after pains immeasurable, I die content, for I 
know that I have done all I could, and am sure that the little 
I have done will not be lost. 

"What, then, have I done? this wilt thou demand of me, 
man of a future age, who will seek for truth in the testaments 
of the past. Thou who wilt be no more Catholic — no more 
Christian, thou wilt ask of the poor monk, lying in the dust, an 
account of his life and death. Thou wouldst know wherefore 
were his vows, why his austerities, his labors, his retreat, his 
pra3'ers ? 

" You who turn back to me, in order that I may guide you 
on 3'our road, and that you may arrive more quickl}^ at the goal 
which it has not been my lot to attain, pause, yet, for a mo- 
ment, and look upon the past history of humanity. You will 
see that its fate has been ever to choose between the least of 
two evils, and ever to commit great faults in order to avoid 
others still greater. You will see .... on one side, the 
heathen mythology, that debased the spirit, in its efforts to 
deif}" the flesh ; on the other, the austere Christian principle, 
that debased the flesh too much, in order to raise the worship 
of the spirit. You will see, afterwards, how the religion of 
Christ embodies itself in a church, and raises itself a generous 
democratic power against the tjTanny of princes. Later still, 
you will see how that power has attained its end, and passed 
be^'ond it. You will see it, having chained and conquered 
princes, league itself with them, in order to oppress the people, 
and seize on temporal power. Schism, then, raises up against 
it the standard of revolt, and preaches the bold and legitimate 
principle of liberty of conscience : but, also, j'ou will see how 
this liberty of conscience brings religious anarch}' in its train ; 
or, worse still, religious indifference and disgust. And if your 
soul, shattered in the tempestuous changes which 3'ou behold 
humanity undergoing, would strike out for itself a passage 
through the rocks, amidst which, like a. frail bark, lies tossing 
trembling truth, you will be embarrassed to choose between the 



216 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

new philosophers — who, in preaching tolerance, destroy re- 
ligious and social unit}^ — and the last Christians, who, to pre- 
serve society, that is, religion and philosophy, are obliged to 
brave the principle of toleration. Man of truth! to whom I 
address, at once, m}' instruction and m}' justification, at the 
time when you shall live, the science of truth no doubt will 
have advanced a step. Think, then, of all your fathers have 
suffered, as, bending beneath the weight of their ignorance and 
uncertainty, the}- have traversed the desert across which, with 
so much pain, the}- have conducted thee ! And if the pride of 
.thy 3'Oung learning shall make thee contemplate the pett}^ 
strifes in which our life has been consumed, pause and tremble, 
as you think of that which is still unknown to 3'ourself, and of 
the judgment that 3^our descendants will pass on you. Think 
of this, and learn to respect all those who, seeking their way in 
all sincerit}', have wandered from the path, frightened b}^ the 
storm, and sorelj^ tried b}^ the severe hand of the All-Powerful. 
Think of tliis, and prostrate yourself; for all these, even the 
most mistaken among them, are saints and martyrs. 

"Without their conquests ancl their defeats, thou wert in 
darkness still. Yes, their failures, their errors even, have a 

right to your respect; for man is weak Weep then, 

for us obscure travellers — unknown victims, who, by our mor- 
tal sufferings and unheard-of labors, have prepared the way 
before you. Pity me, who have passionately loved justice, and 
perseveringl}^ sought for truth, only opened my eyes to shut 
them again for ever, and saw that I had been in vain endeav- 
oring to support a ruin, to take refage in a vault of which the 
foundations were worn awa3\" .... 

The rest of the book of Spiridion is made up of a history of 
the rise, progress, and (what our philosopher is pleased to call) 
decay of Christianity — of an assertion, that the "doctrine oi 
Christ is incomplete ;" that "Christ may, nevertheless, take 
his place in the Pantheon of divine men I " and of a long, dis- 
gusting, absurd, and impious vision, in which the Saviour, 
Moses, David, and Elijah are represented, and in which Christ 
is made to say — " We are all Messiahs, when we wish to bring 
the reign of truth upon earth ; we are all Christs, when we 
suffer for it ! " 

And this is the ultimatum, the supreme secret, the absolute 
truth ! and it has been published by Mrs. Sand, for so many 
napoleons per sheet, in the Revue des Deux Mondes ; and the 
Deux Mondes are to abide by it for the future. After having 
attained it, are we a whit vfiser? " Man is between an angel 



MADAME SAND. 217 

and a beast : I don't know how long it is since he was a brute 
— I can't say how long it will be before he is an angel." Think 
of people living by their wits, and living by such a wit as this ! 
Think of the state of mental debauch and disease which must 
have been passed through, ere such words could be written, 
and could be popular ! 

Wlien a man leaves our dismal, smoky London atmosphere, 
and breathes, instead of coal-smoke and 3'ellowfog, this bright, 
clear, French air, he is quite intoxicated by it at first, and feels 
a glow in liis blood, and a joy in his spirits, which scarcely 
thrice a 3'ear, and then only at a distance from London, he 
can attain in England. Is tlie intoxication, I wonder, perma- 
nent among the natives ? and may we not account for the ten 
thousand frantic freaks of these people by the peculiar influence 
of French air and sun ? The philosopliers are from night to 
morning drunk, the politicians are drunk, the literary men reel 
and stagger from one absurditj^ to another, and how shall we 
understand their vagaries? Let us suppose, charitably, that 
Madame Sand had inhaled a more than ordinary quantity of 
this laughing gas when she wrote for us this precious manu- 
script of Spiridion. That great destinies are in prospect for 
the human race we may fancy, without her ladyship's word for 
it : but more liberal than she, and having a little i-etrospective 
charity, as well as that easy prospective benevolence which 
Mrs. Sand adopts, let us try and think there is some hope for 
our fathers (who were nearer brutality than ourselves, accord- 
ing to the Sandean creed), or else there is a verj^ poor chance 
for us, who, great philosophers as we are, are j^et, alas ! far 
removed from that angelic consummation which all must wish 
for so devoutly. She cannot say — is it not extraordinar}^ ? — 
how many centuries have been necessar}' before man could pass 
from the brutal state to his present condition, or how many 
ages will be required ere we may. pass from the state of man to 
the state of angels ? What the deuce is the use of chronology 
or philosophy ? We were beasts, and we can't tell when our 
tails dropped off : we shall be angels ; but when our wings are 
to begin to sprout, who knows? In the meantime, O man of 
genius, follow our counsel : lead an eas}" life, don't stick at 
trifles ; never mind about duty, it is only made for slaves ; if the 
world reproach you, reproach the world in return, you have a 
good loud tongue in your head : if your straight-laced morals 
injure your mental respiration, fling off the old-fashioned staj^s, 
and leave 3^our free limbs to rise and fall as Nature pleases ; 
and when you have grown pretty sick of your libert}^, and yet 



218 THE TARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

unfit to return to restraint, curse the world, and scorn it, and be 
miserable, like ni}' Lord B^Ton and other philosophers of his 
kidney ; or else mount a step higher, and, with conceit still 
more monstrous, and mental vision still more wretchedly de- 
bauched and weak, begin suddenly to find 3'Ourself afiflicted ' 
with a maudlin compassion for the human race, and a desire to 
set them right after your own fashion. There is the quarrel- 
some stage of drunkenness, when a man can as 3'et walk and 
speak, when he can call names, and fling plates and wine-glasses 
at his neighbor's head with a pretty good aim ; after this comes 
the pathetic stage, when the patient becomes wondrous philan- 
thropic, and weeps wildly, as he lies in the gutter, and fancies 
he is at home in bed — where he ought to be ; but this is an 
allegory. 

I don't wish to carry this an}^ farther, or to say a word in 
defence of the doctrine which Mrs. Dudevant has found "in- 
complete ;" — here, at least, is not tlie place for discussing its 
merits, any more than Mrs. Sand's book was the place for ex- 
posing, forsooth, its errors : our business is only with the day 
and the new novels, and the clever or silly people who write 
them. Oh ! if they but knew their places, and would keep to 
them, and drop their absurd philosophical jargon ! Not all the 
big words in the world can make Mrs. Sand talk like a pliiioso- 
pher : when will she go back to her old trade, of which she was 
the verj' ablest practitioner in France ? 

I should have been glad to give some extracts from the dra-- 
matic and descriptive parts of the novel, that cannot, in point 
of style and beauty, be praised too highlj^ One must suffice, — 
it is the descent of Alexis to seek that unlucky manuscript, 
Spiridion. 

" It seemed to me," he begins, " that the descent was eter- 
nal ; and that I was burying myself in the depths of Erebus : 
at last, I reached a level place, — and I heard a mournful 
voice deliA^er these words, as it were, to the secret centre of 
the earth — '•He will mount that ascent no more!^ — Imme- 
diatel}^ I heard arise towards me, from the depth of invisible 
abysses, a m3Tiad of formidable voices united in a strange 
chant — ' Let us destroy him ! Let him be destroyed! What does 
he here among the dead ? Let him be delivered back to torture ! 
Let him be given again to life ! ' 

*'Then a feeble light began to pierce the darkness, and I 
perceived that I stood on the lowest step of a staircase, vast 
as the foot of a mountain. Behind me were thousands of 
steps of lurid iron ; before me, nothing but a void — an ab3"ss, 



MADAME SAND. 219 

and ether ; the blue gloom of midnight beneath my feet, as 
above my head. I became delirious, and quitting that stair- 
case, which methought it was impossible for me to reascend, 
I sprung forth into the void with an execration. But, imme- 
diately, when I had uttered the curse, the void began to be 
filled with forms and colors, and I presently perceived that I 
was in a vast gallery, along which I advanced, trembling. 
There was still darkness round me ; but the hollows of the 
vaults gleamed with a red light, and showed me the strange 
and hideous forms of their building I did not dis- 
tinguish the nearest objects ; but those towards which I ad- 
vanced assumed an appearance more and more ominous, and 
my terror increased with ever}' step I took. The enormous 
pillars which supported the vault, and the tracery thereof 
itself, were figures of men, of supernatural stature, delivered 
to tortures without a name. Some hung by their feet, and, 
locked in the coils of monstrous serpents, clenched their teeth 
in the marble of the pavement ; others, fastened by their 
waists, were dragged upwards, these by their feet, those by 
their heads, towards capitals, where other figures stooped 
towards them, eager to torment them. Other pillars, again, 
represented a struggling mass of figures devouring one another ; 
each of which onlj- offered a trunk severed to the knees or to 
the shoulders, the fierce heads whereof retained life enough to 
weize and devour that which was near them. There were some 
who, half hanging down, agonized themselves by attempting, 
with their upper limbs, to flay the lower moiety of their bodies, 
which drooped from the columns, or were attached to the ped- 
estals ; and others, who, in their fight with each other, were 
dragged along by morsels of flesh, — grasping which, they 
clung to each other with a countenance of unspeakable hate and 
agon}'. Along, or rather in place of, the frieze, there were on 
either side a range of unclean beings, wearing the human form, 
but of a loathsome ugliness, busied in tearing human corpses to 
pieces — in feasting upon their limbs and entrails. From the 
vault, instead of bosses and pendants, hung the crushed and 
wounded forms of children ; as if to escape these eaters of man's 
flesh, they would throw themselves downwards, and be dashed 

to pieces on the pavement The silence and motion- 

lessness of the whole added to its awfulness. I became so faint 
with terror, that I stopped, and would fain have returned. But 
at that moment I heard, from the depths of the gloom through 
which 1 had passed, confused noises, like those of a multitude on 
its march. And the sounds soon became more distinct, and th<» 



220 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

clamor fiercer, and the steps came hurrying on tumultuously — 
at every new burst nearer, more violent, more threatening. I 
thought that I was pursued by this disorderly crowd ; and I 
strove to advance, hurryingjnto the midst of those dismal sculp- 
tures. Then it seemed as if those figures began to heave, — and 
to sweat blood, — and their beady eyes to move in their sockets. 
At once I beheld that they were all looking upon me, that they 
were all leaning towards me, — some with frightful derision, 
others with furious aversion. Every arm was raised against me, 
and they made as though the}^ would crush me with the quivering- 
limbs they had torn one from the other." .... 

It is, indeed, a pity that the poor fellow gave himself the 
trouble to go down into damp, unwholesome graves, for the 
purpose of fetching up a few trumpery sheets of manuscript ; 
and if the public has been rather tired with their contents, and 
is disposed to ask why Mrs. Sand's religious or irreligious 
notions are to be brought forward to people who are quite sat- 
isfied with their own, we can only sa}^ that this lady is the 
representative of a vast class of her countrymen, whom the 
wits and philosophers of the eighteenth century have brought 
to this condition. The leaves of the Diderot and Rousseau 
tree have produced this goodly fruit : here it is, ripe, bursting, 
and read}^ to fall ; — and how to fall ? Heaven send that it 
may drop easily, for all can see that the time is como. 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL 



IN A LETTER TO EDWARD BRIEFLESS, ESQUIRE, OF PUMP 
COURT, TEMPLE. 



Paris, November, 1839. 

My dear Briefless, — Two months since, when the act of 
accusation first appeared, containing the sum of the charges 
against Sebastian Peytel, all Paris was in a fervor on the subject. 
The man's trial speedily followed, and kept for three days the 
pubhc interest wound up to a painful point. He was found 
guilt}^ of double murder at the beginning of September ; and, 
since that time, what with Maroto's disaffection and Turkish 
news, we have had leisure to forget Monsieur Peytel, and to 
occupy ourselves with n veov. Perhaps Monsieur de Balzac 
helped to smother what little sparks of interest might still have 
remained for the murderous notary. Balzac put forward a 
letter in his favor, so very long, so very dull, so very pompous, 
promising so much, and performing so little, that the Parisian 
pubUc gave up Peytel and his case altogether; nor was it 
until to-day that some small feeling was raised concerning him, 
when the newspapers brought the account how Pe3^ters head 
had been cut off at Bourg. 

He had gone through the usual miserable ceremonies and 
delays which attend what is called, in this country, the march 
of justice. He had made his appeal to the Court of Cassation, 
which had taken time to consider the verdict of the Provincial 
Court, and had confirmed it. He had made his appeal for 
mercy ; his poor sister coming up all the way from Bourg (a 
sad journey, poor thing !) to have an interview with the King, 
who had refused to see her. Last Monday morning, at nine 
o'clock, an hour before Peytel's breakfast, the Grefller of As- 
size Court, in company with the Cure of Bourg, waited on 
him, and informed him that he had only three hours to live. 
At twelve o'clock, Peytel's head was off his body : an execu- 



222 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

tioner from L3'ons had come over the night before, to assist 
the professional throat- cutter of Bourg. 

I am not going to entertain you with any sentimental lam- 
entations for this scoundrel's fate, or to declare my belief in 
his innocence, as Monsieur de Balzac has done. As far as 
moral conviction can go, the man's guilt is prett\^ clearly 
brought home to him. But any man who has read the " Causes 
Celebres," knows that men have been convicted and executed 
upon evidence ten times more powerful than that which was 
brought against Peytel. His own account of his horrible 
case may be true ; there is nothing adduced in the evidence 
which is strong enough to overthrow it. It is a serious privi- 
lege, God knows, that society takes upon itself, at any time, 
to deprive one of God's creatures of existence. But when the 
slightest doubt remains, what a tremendous risk does it incur ! 
In England, thank heaven, the law is more wise and more 
merciful : an EngHsh jury would never have taken a man's 
blood upon such testimony : an English judge and Crown advo- 
cate would never have acted as these Frenchmen have done ; 
the latter inflaming the public mind by exaggerated appeals to 
their passions : the former seeking, in every way, to draw con- 
fessions from the prisoner, to perplex and confound him, to do 
away, b}^ fierce cross-questioning and bitter remarks from the 
bench, with any effect that his testimou}- might have on the 
jury. I don't mean to say that judges and lawyers have been 
more violent and inquisitorial against the unhappy Peytel than 
against any one else ; it is the fashion of the country : a man 
is guilt}' until he proves himself to be innocent ; and to batter 
down his defence, if he have any, there are the lawyers, with 
all their horrible ingenuity, and their captivating passionate 
eloquence. It is hard thus to set the skilful and tried cham- 
pions of the law against men unused to this kind of combat ; 
nay, give a man all the legal aid that he can purchase or pro- 
cure, still, by this plan, you take him at a cruel, unmanly dis- 
advantage ; he has to fight against the law, clogged with the 
dreadful weight of his presupposed guilt. Thank God that, 
in England, things are not managed so. 

However, I am not about to entertain j^ou with ignorant 
disquisitions about the law. Pej^tel's case may, nevertheless, 
interest you ; for the tale is a ver}^ stirring and mysterious one ; 
and you may see how easy a thing it is for a man's life to be 
talked away in France, if ever he should happen to fall under 
the suspicion of a crime. The French "Acte d' accusation " 
begins in the following manner : — 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 223 

*' Of all the events which, in these latter times, have afflicted 
the department of the Ain, there is none which has caused a 
more profound and lively sensation than the tragical death of 
the lad}^ Felicite Alcazar, wife of Sebastian Benedict Pe.ytel, 
notary, at Belley. At the end of October, 1838, Madame 
Peytel quitted that town, with her husband, and their servant 
Louis Rey, in order to pass a few days at Macon : at midnight, 
the inhabitants of Belley were suddenly awakened by the arrival 
of Monsieur Pe3'tel, by his cries, and by the signs which he ex- 
hibited of the most lively agitation : he implored the succors of 
all the physicians in the town ; knocked violently at their doors ; 
rung at the bells of their houses with a sort of frenzy, and 
announced that his wife, stretched out, and dying, in his car- 
riage, had just been shot, on the Lyons road, by his domestic, 
whose life Pejtel himself had taken. 

'' At this recital a number of persons assembled, and what a 
spectacle was presented to their ejes. 

" A young woman lay at the bottom of a carriage, deprived 
of life ; her whole body was wet, and seemed as if it had just 
been plunged into the water. She appeared to be severely 
wounded in the face ; and her garments, which were raised up, 
in spite of the cold and rainy weather, left the upper part of 
her knees almost entirely exposed. At the sight of this half- 
naked and inanimate body, all the spectators were affected. 
People said that the first duty to pay to a dying woman was, to 
preserve her from the cold, to cover her. A physician ex- 
amined the body ; he declared that all remedies were useless ; 
that Madame Peytel was dead and cold. 

' ' The entreaties of Peytel were redoubled ; he demanded 
fresh succors, and, giving no heed to the fatal assurance which 
had just been given him, required that all the physicians in the 
place should be sent for. A scene so strange and so melan- 
cholj' ; the incoherent account given by Pc}- tel of the murder of 
his wife ; his extraordinary movements ; and the avowal which 
he continued to make, that he had despatched the murderer, 
Re}^ with strokes of his hammer, excited the attention of 
Lieutenant Wolf, commandant of gendarmes : that officer 
gave orders for the immediate arrest of Pej'tel ; but the latter 
threw himself into the arms of a friend, who interceded for 
him, and begged the police not immediately to seize upon his 
person. 

" The corpse of Madame Peytel was transported to her 
apartment; the bleeding body of the domestic was likewisu 



224 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

brought from the road, where it lay ; and Peytel, asked to 
explain the circumstance, did so." . . . . 

Now, as there is little reason to tell the reader, when an 
English counsel has to prosecute a prisoner on the part of the 
Crown for a capital offence, he produces the articles of his accu- 
sation in tlie most moderate terms, and especially warns the jury 
to give the accused person the benefit of every possible doubt 
that the evidence may give, or may leave. See how these 
things are managed in France, and how differently the French 
counsel for the Crown sets about his work. 

He first prepares his act of accusation, the opening of which 
we have just read ; it is published six days before the trial, so 
that an unimpassioned, unprejudiced jury has ample time to 
stud}^ it, and to form its opinions accordingl}^, and to go into 
court with a happy, just prepossession against the prisoner. 

Read the first part of the Peytel act of accusation ; it is as 
turgid and declamatory as a bad romance ; and as inflated as a 
newspaper document, by an unlimited penn3^-a-Hner : — " The 
department of the Ain is in a dreadful state of excitement ; 
the inhabitants of Belley come trooping from their beds, — and 
what a sight do they behold ; — a young woman at the bottom 
of a carriage, toute ruisselante, just out of a river ; her garments, 
in spite of the cold and rain, raised, so as to leave the upper 
part of her knees entirely exposed, at which all the beholders 
were affected, and cried, that the Jirst duty was to cover her 
from the cold." This settles the case at once ; the first duty of 
a man is to cover the legs of the sufferer ; the second to call for 
help. The eloquent " Substitut du Procureur du Roi" has pre- 
judged the case, in the course of a few sentences. He is put- 
ting his readers, among whom his future jury is to be found, 
into a proper state of mind ; he works on them with pathetic 
description, just as a romance-writer would : the rain pours in 
torrents ; it is a dreary evening in November ; the young crea- 
ture's situation is neatly described ; the distrust which entered 
into the breast of the keen old officer of gendarmes strongly 
painted, the suspicions which might, or might not, have been 
entertained by the inhabitants, eloquentl}- argued. How did 
the advocate know that the people had such? did all the b}^- 
standers say aloud, " I suspect that this is a case of murder by 
Monsieur Peytel, and that his story about the domestic is all 
deception ? " or did they go oflT to the ma3^or, and register their 
suspicion ? or was the advocate there to hear them ? Not he ; 
but he paints 3^ou the whole scene, as though it had existed, 
and gives full accounts of suspicions, as if they had been 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 225 

facts, positive, patent, staring, that ever^^body could see and 
swear to. 

Having thus primed his audience, and prepared them for the 
testimony of the accused part}^, "Now," says he, with a fine 
show of justice, " let us hear Monsieur Peytel ; " and that wor- 
th}^' s narrative is given as follows : — 

" He said that he had left Macon on the 31st October, at 
eleven o'clock in the morning, in order to return to Belley, with 
his wife and servant. The latter drove, or led, an open car ; 
he himself was driving his wife in a four-wheeled carriage, 
drawn by one horse : they reached Bourg at five o'clock in the 
evening ; left it at seven, to sleep at Pont d'Ain, where they 
did not arrive before midnight. During the journey, Peytel 
thought he remarked that Rey had slackened his horse's pace. 
When the}" alighted at the inn, Peytel bade him deposit in 
his chamber 7,500 francs, which he carried with him ; but the 
domestic refused to do so, sa3'ing that the inn gates were 
secure, and there was no danger. Pe3'tel was, therefore, 
obliged to carry his money up stairs himself. The next day, 
the 1st November, they set out on their journe}^ again, at nine 
o'clock in the morning ; Louis did not come, according to 
custom, to take his master's orders. The}^ arrived at Tenay 
about three, stopped there a couple of hours to dine, and it was 
eight o'clock when they reached the bourg of Rossillon, where 
they waited half an hour to bait the horses. 

"As they left Rossillon, the weather became bad, and the 
rain began to fall : Pe^-tel told his domestic to get a covering 
for the articles in the open chariot ; but Rey refused to do 
so, adding, in an ironical tone, that the weather was fine. For 
some days past, Peytel had remarked that his servant was 
gloom}", and scarcely spoke at all. 

" After they had gone about 500 paces beyond the bridge 
of Andert, that crosses the river Furans, and ascended to the 
least steep part of the hill of Darde, Peytel cried out to his 
servant, who was seated in the car, to come down from it, and 
finish the ascent on foot. 

" At this moment a violent wind was blowing from the 
south, and the rain was faUing heavily : Peytel was seated 
back in the right corner of the carriage, and his wife, who was 
close to him, was asleep, with her head on his left shoulder. 
All of a sudden he heard the report of a fire-arm (he had 
seen the Ught of it at some paces' distance), and Madame 
Peytel cried out, 'My poor husband, take your pistols ;' the 
horse was frightened, and began to trot. Peytel immediately 

15 



226 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

drew the pistol, and fired, from the interior of the carriage, 
upon an individual whom he saw running by the side of the 
road. 

" Not knowing, as 3^et, that his wife had been hit, he jumped 
out on one side of the carriage, while Madame Peytel descended 
from the other ; and he fired a second pistol at his domestic, 
Louis Rey, whom he had just recognized. Redoubling his j^ace, 
he came up with Re}^, and struck him, from behind, a blow with 
the hammer. Rey turned at this, and raised up his arm to 
strike his master with the pistol which he had just discharged 
at him ; but Peytel, more quick than he, gave the domestic a 
blow with the hammer, which felled him to the ground (he fell 
his face forwards), and then Peytel, bestriding the body, 
despatched him, although the brigand asked for mercy. 

" He now began to think of his wife ; and ran back, calHng 
out her name repeatedly, and seeking for her, in vain, on both 
sides of the road. Arrived at the bridge of Andert, he recog- 
nized his wife, stretched in a field, covered with water, which 
bordered the Furans. This horiible discovery had so much the 
more astonished him, because he had no idea, until now, that 
his wife had been wounded : he endeavored to draw her from 
the water ; and it was only after considerable exertions that he 
was enabled to do so, and to place her, with her face towards 
the ground, on the side of the road. Supposing that, here, she 
would be sheltered from any farther danger, and believing, as 
3'et, that she was onty wounded, he determined to ask for help 
at a lone house, situated on the road towards Rossillon ; and at 
this instant he perceived, without at all being able to explain 
how, that his horse had followed him back to the spot, having 
turned back of its own accord, from the road to Belley. 

" The house at which he knocked was inhabited by tvfo men, 
of the name of Thannet, father and son, who opened the door 
to him, and whom he entreated to come to his aid, saying that 
his wife had just been assassinated b}- his servant. The elder 
Thannet approached to, and examined the body, and told Pey- 
tel that it was quite dead ; he and his son took up the corpse, 
and placed it in the bottom of the carriage, which they all 
mounted themselves, and pursued their route to Belley. In 
order to do so, the}^ had to pass by Rey's body, on the road, 
which Peytel wished to crush under the wheels of his carriage. 
It was to rob him of 7,500 francs, said Pe3'tel, that the attack 
had been made." 

Our friend, the Procureur's Substitut, has dropped, here, the 
eloquent and pathetic style altogether, and only gives the un- 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 227 

lucky prisoner's narrative in the baldest and most unimaginative 
style. How is a jurj' to listen to such a fellow? they ought to 
condemn hhn, if but for making such an uninteresting state- 
ment. WI13' not have helped poor Peytel with some of those 
rhetorical graces which have been so plentifull}^ bestowed in the 
opening part of the act of accusation ? He might have said : — 

' ' Monsieur Peytel is an eminent notary at Belley ; he is a 
man distinguished for his literary and scientific acquirements ; 
he has lived long in the best society of the capital ; he had been 
but a few months married to that young and unfortunate lad}', 
whose loss has plunged her bereaved husband into despair — 
almost into madness. Some earty differences had marked, it is 
true, the commencement of their union ; but these, — which, as 
can be proved by evidence, were almost all the unhappj- lady's 
fault, — had happilj' ceased, to give place to sentiments far 
more delightful and tender. Gentlemen, Madame Peytel bore 
in her bosom a sweet pledge of future concord between herself 
and her husband : in three brief months she was to become a 
mother. 

" In the exercise of his honorable profession, — in which, to 
succeed, a man must not only have high talents, but undoubted 
probity, — and, gentlemen, Monsieur Pe^^tel did succeed — did 
inspire respect and confidence, as you, his neighbors, well 
know; — in the exercise, 1 say, of his high caUing, Monsieur 
Peytel, towards the end of October last, had occasion to make 
a journey in the neighborhood, and visit some of his many 
clients. 

" He travelled in his own carriage, his 3'oung wife beside 
him. Does this look like want of affection, gentlemen? or is 
it not a mark of love — of love and paternal care on his part 
towards the being with whom his lot in life was linked, — the 
mother of his coming child, — the 3'oung girl, who had every- 
thing to gain from the union with a man of his attainments of 
intellect, his kind temper, his great experience, and his high 
position? In this manner they travelled, side by side, lovingly 
together. Monsieur Peytel was not a lawyer merely, but a man 
of letters and varied learning ; of the noble and subUme science 
of geology he was, especially, an ardent devotee." 

(Suppose, here, a short panegyric upon geology. Allude to 
the creation of this mighty world, and then, naturally, to the 
Creator. Fancy the conversations which Peytel, a rehgious 
man,* might have with his young wife upon the subject.) 

" Monsieur Peytel had lately taken into his service a man 

* He always went to mass ; it is in the evidence. 



228 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

named Louis Rey. Re}^ was a foundling, and had passed many 
3'ears in a regiment — a school, gentlemen, where much besides 
braveiy, alas ! is taught ; nsiy, where the spirit which familiar- 
izes one with notions of battle and death, I fear, ma}' familiarize 
one with ideas, too, of murder. Rey, a dashing reckless fellow, 
from the army, had lately entered Peytel's service ; was treated 
by him with the most singular kindness ; accompanied him 
(having charge of another vehicle) upon the journe}' before 
alluded to ; and knew that his master carried with him a consider- 
able sum of money ; for a man like Rey an enormous sum, 7,500 
francs. At midnight on the 1st of November, as Madame Pey- 
tel and her husband were returning home, an attack was made 
upon their carriage. Remember, gentlemen, the hour at which 
the attack was made ; remember the sum of money that was in 
the carriage ; and remember that the Savoy frontier is within a 
league of the spot where the desperate deed was done." 

Now, my dear Briefless, ought not Monsieur Procureur, in 
common justice to Peytel, after he had so eloquentl}' proclaimed, 
not the facts, but the suspicions, which weighed against that 
worthy, to have given a similar florid account of the prisoner's 
case? Instead of this, you will remark, that it is the advocate's 
endeavor to make Peytel's statements as uninteresting in style 
as possible ; and then he demolishes them in the following 
way ; — 

" Scarcely was Pej'tel's statement known, when the common 
sense of the public rose against it. Peytel had commenced his 
stor}^ upon the bridge of Andert, over the cold body of his wife. 
On the 2nd November he had developed it in detail, in the 
presence of the physicians, in the presence of the assembled 
neighbors — of the persons who, on the day previous only, were 
his friends. Finally, he had completed it in his interrogatories, 
his conversations, his writings, and letters to the magistrates ; 
and ever3^where these words, repeated so often, were onl}' re- 
ceived with a painful incredulit}*. The fact was that, besides 
the singular character which Pe3'ters appearance, attitude, and 
talk had worn ever since the event, there was in his narrative 
an inexplicable enigma ; its contradictions and impossibilities 
were such, that calm persons were revolted at it, and that even 
friendship itself refused to believe it." 

Thus Mr. Attorney speaks, not for himself alone, but for the 
whole French public ; whose opinions, of course, he knows. 
Peytel's statement is discredited everywhere ; the statement 
which he had made over the cold bod}^ of his wife — the mon- 
ster ! It is not enough simply to prove that the man committed 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 229 

the murder, but to make the jury violently angry against him, 
and cause them to shudder in the jurj^-box, as he exposes the 
horrid details of the crime. 

" Justice," goes on Mr. Substitute (who answers for the feel- 
ings of ever3'bod3') , '''' distnrhed hy the pre-occupations of public 
opinion^ commenced, without delay, the most active researches. 
The bodies of the victims were submitted to the investigations 
of men of art ; the wounds and projectiles were examined ; the 
place where the event took place explored with care. The 
morality of the author of this frightful scene became the object 
of rigorous examination ; the exigeances of the prisoner, the 
forms affected by him, his calculating silence, and his answers, 
coldly insulting, were feeble obstacles ; and justice at length 
arrived, by its prudence, and by the discoveries it made, to the 
most cruel point of certainty." 

You see that a man's demeanor is here made a crime against 
him ; and that Mr. Substitute wishes to consider him guilty, 
because he has actually the audacity to hold his tongue. Now 
follows a touching description of the domestic, Louis Rey : — 

" Louis Rey, a child of the Hospital at L^^ons, was confided, 
at a very early age, to some honest country people, with whom 
he stayed until he entered the arm3\ At their house, and dur- 
ing this long period of time, his conduct, his intelligence, and 
the sweetness of his manners were such, that the family of his 
guardians became to him as an adopted famil}^ ; and his de- 
parture caused them the most sincere affliction. When Louis 
quitted the army, he returned to his benefactors, and was re- 
ceived as a son. They found him just as they had ever known 
him " (I acknowledge that this pathos beats m}^ humble defence 
of Peytel entirety), " except that he had learned to read and 
write ; and the certificates of his commanders proved him to be 
a good and gallant soldier. 

"The necessit}' of creating some resources for himself, 
obliged him to quit his friends, and to enter the service of 
Monsieur de Montrichard, a lieutenant of gendarmerie, from 
whom he received fresh testimonials of regard. Louis, it is 
true, might have a fondness for wine and a passion for women ; 
but he had been a soldier, and these faults were, according to 
the witnesses, amply compensated for b}^ his activit}^ his intel- 
ligence, and the agreeable manner in which he performed his 
service. In the month of Jul}', 1839, Re}- quitted, voluntarily, 
the service of M. de Montrichard ; and Peytel, about this 
period, meeting him at Lyons, did not hesitate to attach him 



230 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

to his sendee. Whatever ma}- be the prisoner's present lan^ 
gnage, it is certain that up to the da}^ of Louis's death, he 
served Pej^tel with diUgence and fideUty. 

" More than once his master and mistress spoke well of him. 
Everybody who has worked, or been at the house of Madame 
Peytel, has spoken in praise of his character ; and, indeed, it 
may be said, that these testimonials were general. 

"On the ver}" night of the 1st of November, and imme- 
diatel3' after the catastrophe, we remark how Peytel begins to 
make insinuations against his servant ; and how artful!}^, in 
order to render them more sure, he disseminates them through 
the different parts of his narrative. But, in the course of the 
proceeding, these charges have met with a most complete 
denial. Thus we find the disobedient servant who, at Pont 
d'Ain, refused to carr}^ the money-chest to his master's room, 
under the pretext that the gates of the inn were closed securelj', 
occupied with tending the horses after their long journe}^ : 
meanwhile Peytel was standing by, and neither master nor 
servant exchanged a word, and the witnesses who beheld 
them both have borne testimony to the zeal and care of the 
domestic. 

"In like manner, we find that the servant, who was so 
remiss in the morning as to neglect to go to his master for 
orders, was ready for departure before seven o'clock, and had 
eagerly informed himself whether Monsieur and Madame Peytel 
were awake ; learning from the maid of the inn, that the}^ had 
ordered nothing for their breakfast. This man, who refused to 
carry with him a covering for the car, was, on the contrary, 
ready to take off his own cloak, and with it shelter articles of 
small value; this man, who had been for many da3^s so silent 
and gloom}^ gave, on the contrarj^, man}^ proofs of his ga3^et3^ 
— almost of his indiscretion, speaking, at all the inns, in terms 
of praise of his master and mistress. The waiter at the inn at 
Dauphin, says he was a tall 3'oung fellow, mild and good- 
natured ; ' we talked for some time about horses, and such 
things ; he seemed to be perfectly natural, and not pre-occu- 
pied at all.' At Pont d'Ain, he talked of his being a found- 
ling ; of the place where he had been brought up, and where 
he had served ; and finally, at Rossillon, an hour before his 
death, he conversed familiarl3' with the master of the port, and 
epoke on indifferent subjects. 

" All Peytel's insinuations against his servant had no other 
end than to show, in ever3' point of Re3^'s conduct, the behavior 
of a man who was premeditating attack. Of what, in fact, 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 231 

does he accuse him? Of wishing to rob him of 7,500 francs, 
and of having had recourse to assassination, in order to effect 
the robbery. But, for a premeditated crime, consider what 
singular improvidence the person showed who had determined 
on committing it ; what foll}^ and what weakness there is in tlie 
execution of it. 

" How many insurmountable obstacles are there in the way 
of committing and profiting by crime ! On leaving Belle}^ 
Louis Rey, according to Peytel's statement, knowing that his 
master would return with money, provided himself with a holster 
pistol, which Madame Peytel had once before perceived among 
his effects. In Pe3'ters cabinet there were some balls ; four of 
these were found in Re3''s trunk, on the 6th of November. 
And, in order to commit the crime, this domestic had brought 
awa}' with him a pistol, and no ammunition ; for Peytel has 
informed us that Re}^, an hour before his departure from Macon, 
purchased six balls at a gunsmith's. To gain his point, the 
assassin must immolate his victims ; for this, he has onl}' one 
pistol, knowing, perfectly well, that Peytel, in all his travels, had 
two on his person ; knowing that, at a late hour of the night, 
his shot might fail of effect ; and that, in this case, he would be 
left to the mercy of his opponent. 

"The execution of the crime is, according to Peytel's 
account, still more singular. Louis does not get off the carriage, 
until Peytel tells him 'to descend. He does not think of taking 
his master's life until he is sure that the latter has his ej'es 
open. It is dark, and the pair are covered in one cloak ; and 
Rey only fires at them at six paces' distance : he fires at hazard, 
without disquieting himself as to the choice of his victim ; and 
the soldier, who was bold enough to undertake this double 
murder, has not force nor courage to consummate it. He flies, 
carrying in his hand a useless whip, with a heav}^ mantle on 
his shoulders, in spite of the detonation of two pistols at his 
ears, and the rapid steps of an angrj^ master in pursuit, which 
ought to have set him upon some better means of escape. And 
we find this man, full of 3'outh and vigor, lying with his face to 
the ground, in the midst of a public road, falhng without a 
struggle, or resistance, under the blows of a hammer ! 

' ' And suppose the murderer had succeeded in his criminal 
projects, what fruit could he have drawn from them ? — Leaving, 
on the road, the two bleeding bodies ; obliged to lead two 
carriages at a time, for fear of discover}^ ; not able to return 
himself, after all the pains he had taken to speak, at every place 
at which the}' had stopped, of the money which his master was 



232 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

canying with him ; too prudent to appear alone at Bellej ; 
arrested at the frontier, b}^ the excise officers, wiio would present 
an impassable barrier to him till morning, — what could he do, 
or hope to do ? The examination of the car has shown that 
Rey, at the moment of the crime, had neither linen, nor clothes, 
nor effects of an^' kind. There was found in his pockets, when 
the body was examined, no passport, nor certificate ; one of 
his pockets contained a ball, of large calibre, which he had 
shown, in pla}^ to a girl, at the inn at Macon, a little horn- 
handled knife, a snuff-box, a little packet of gunpowder, and a 
purse, containing only a halfpenny and some string. Here is 
all the baggage, with which, after the execution of his homicidal 
plan, Louis Re}^ intended to take refuge in a foreign country .* 
Beside these absurd contradictions, there is another remarkable 
fact, which must not be passed over ; it is this : — the pistol 
found by Rey is of antique form, and the original owner of it 
has been found. He is a curiosity-merchant at Lyons ; and, 
though he cannot affirm that Peytel was the person who bought 
this pistol of him, he perfectly recognizes Pe^'-tel as having been 
a frequent customer at his shop ! 

"No, we may fearlessty affirm that Louis Rey was not 
guilt}^ of the crime which Peytel lays to his charge. If, to 
those who knew him, his mild and open disposition, his militarj^ 
career, modest and without a stain, the touching regrets of 
his employers, are sufficient proofs of his innocence, — the calm 
and candid observer, who considers how the crime was con- 
ceived, was executed, and what consequences would have re- 
sulted from it, will likewise acquit him, and free him of the 
odious imputation which Pe3'tel endeavors to cast upon his 
memor3\ 

"But justice has removed the veil, with which an impious 
hand endeavored to cover itself. Already, on the night of the 
1st of November, suspicion was awakened by the extraordinary 
agitation of Peytel ; by those excessive attentions towards his 
wife, which came so late ; by that excessive and noisy grief, 
and by those calculated bursts of sorrow, which are such as 
Nature does not exhibit. The criminal, whom the public con- 
science had fixed upon ; the man whose frightful combinations 
have been laid bare, and whose falsehoods, step by step, have 
been exposed, during the proceedings previous to the trial ; the 
murderer, at whose hands a heart-stricken famil}^, and society 
at large, demands an account of the blood of a wife ; — that 
murderer is Peytel." 

* This sentence is taken from anotlier part of the " Acte d'accusation." 



THE CASE OF FEYTEL. 233 

When, my dear Briefless, you are a judge (as I make no 
doubt you will be, when you have left off the club all night, 
cigar-smoking of mornings, and reading novels in bed), will 
3'ou exer find it in your heart to order a fellow-sinner's head off 
upon such evidence as this ? Because a romantic Substitut du 
Procureur de Roi chooses to compose and recite a little drama, 
and draw tears from juries, let us hope that severe Rhadaman- 
thine judges are not to be melted by such trumpery. One 
wants but the description of the characters to render the piece 
complete, as thus : — 

Personages. Costumes. 

r Habillement complet de 

Sebastien Pe ytel Meurtrier ■< notaire per tide : figure pale, 

tbarbe noire, cheveux noira. 
f Soldat retire, bon, ^ 
brave, franc, jovial aim- Costume ordinaire ; il 

Louis Rey -| ant levin, les femmes, la J-porte sur ses epaules une 

gaiete, ses maitres sur- J couverture de cheval. 
t tout ; vrai Fran9ais, enfin j 

Wolf Lieutenant de gendarmerie. 

FiiLiciTife d' Alcazar... Femme et victime de Peytel. 

Medecins, Villageois, Filles dAuberge, Gar9ons d'P]curie, &c. &c. 
La scene ^e passe sur le pont dAndert, entre Macon et Belley. II est minuit. 
La pluie tombe: les tonnerres grondent. Le ciel est couvert de nuages, et 
sillonne d'^clairs. 

All these personages are brought into plaj in the Procu- 
reur's drama ; the villagers come in with their chorus ; the old 
lieutenant of gendarmes with his suspicions ; Rej^'s frankness 
and gayet}^ the romantic circumstances of his birth, his gal- 
lantr}' and fidelit}', are all introduced, in order to form a con- 
trast with Peytel, and to call down the jury's indignation against 
the latter. But are these proofs? or anything like proofs? 
And the suspicions, that are to serve instead of proofs, what 
are the}^? 

" My servant, Louis Rey, was ver}^ sombre and reserved," 
says Peytel ; " he refused to call me in the morning, to carry 
my money-chest to my room, to cover the open car when it 
rained." The Prosecutor disproves this by stating that Rey 
talked with the inn maids and servants, asked if his master was 
up, and stood in the inn-yard, grooming the horses, with his 
master by his side, neither speaking to the other. Might he 
not have talked to the maids, and yet been sombre when speak- 
ing to his master? Might he not have neglected to call his 
master, and yet have asked whether he was awake ? Might he 
not have said that the inn-gates were safe, out of hearing of 
the ostler witness ? Mr. Substitute's answers to Pevtel's state- 



234 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

ments are no answer at all. Everj- word Peytel said might be 
true, and 3'et Louis Rey might not have committed the murder ; 
or every word might ha^^e been false, and yet Louis Re}'^ might 
have committed the murder. 

"Then," says Mr. Substitute, "how many obstacles are 
there to the commission of the crime ? And these are — 

"1. Rey provided himself with one holster pistol, to kill two 
people, knowing well that one of them had always a brace of 
pistols about him. 

"2. He does not think of firing until his master's eyes are 
open : fires at six paces, not caring at whom he fires, and then 
runs away. 

"3. He could not have intended to kill his master, because 
he had no passport in his pocket, and no clothes ; and because 
he must have been detained at the frontier until morning ; and 
because he would have had to drive two carriages, in order 
to avoid suspicion. 

"4. And, a most singular circumstance, the very pistol 
which was found by his side had been bought at the shop of a 
man at L3^ons, who perfectly recognized Peytel as one of his 
customers, though he could not saj- he had sold that particular 
weapon to Peytel." 

Does it follow, from this, that Louis Re}^ is not the mur- 
derer, much more, that Peytel is? Look at argument No. 1. 
Rey had no need to kill two people : he wanted the money, and 
not the blood. Suppose he had killed Peytel, would he not 
have mastered Madame Peytel easily ? — a weak woman, in an 
excessively delicate situation, incapable of much energy, at the 
best of times. 

2. "He does not fire till he knows his master's eyes are 
open." Why, on a stormy night, does a man drivhig a car- 
riage go to sleep ? Was Rey to wait until his master snored ? 
"lie fires at six paces, not caring whom he hits;" — and 
might not this happen too ? The night is not so dark but that 
he can see his master, in his usual place ^ driving. He fires and 
hits — whom? Madame Peytel, who had left her place, and 
was ivrapped up with Peytel in his cloak. She screams out, 
" Husband, take 3'our pistols." Rey knows that his master 
has a brace, thinks that he has hit the wrong person, and, as 
Peytel fires on him, runs away. Peytel follows, hammer in 
hand ; as he comes up with the fugitive, he deals him a blow 
on the back of the head, and Rey falls — his face to the ground. 
Is there anything unnatural in this story? — anything so mon- 
strously unnatural, that is, that it might not be true? 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 235 

3. These objections are absurd. Why need a man have 
change of linen ? If he had taken none for the journej', why 
should he want any for the escape? Why need he drive two 
carriages ? — He might have driven both into the river, and 
Mrs. Peytel in one. Why is he to go to the douane, and 
thrust hhnself into the very jaws of danger? Are there not 
a thousand ways for a man to pass a frontier? Do smugglers, 
when they have to pass from one countr}' to another, choose 
exactly those spots where a police is placed ? 

And, finall}^, the gunsmith of Lyons, who knows Peytel 
quite well, cannot say that he sold the pistol to him ; that is, 
he did 7iot sell the pistol to him ; for you have onl}^ one man's 
word, in this case (Peytel's), to the contrary; and the testi- 
mony, as far as it goes, is in his favor. I say, my lud, and 
gentlemen of the jur}^, that these objections of m}' learned 
friend, who is engaged for the Crown, are absurd, frivolous, 
monstrous ; that to suspect away the life of a man upon such 
suppositions as these, is wicked, illegal, and inhuman; and, 
what is more, that Louis Rey, if he wanted to commit the 
crime — if he wanted to possess himself of a large sum of 
money, chose the best time and spot for so doing ; and, no 
doubt, would have succeeded, if Fate had not, in a wonderful 
manner, caused Madame Pe3^tel to take her husband's place^ and 
receive the ball intended for him in her own head. 

But whether these suspicions are absurd or not, hit or miss, 
it is the advocate's dutj', as it appears, to urge them. He 
wants to make as unfavorable an impression as possible with 
regard to Pe3'ters character ; he, therefore, must, for con- 
trast's sake, give all sorts of praise to his victim, and awaken 
ever}' sympathy in the poor fellow's favor. Having done this, 
as far as lies in his power, having exaggerated everj' circum- 
stance that can be unfavorable to Peytel, and given his own 
tale in the baldest manner possible — having declared that 
Peytel is the murderer of his wife and servant, the Crown 
now proceeds to back this assertion, by showing what inter- 
ested motives he had, and by relating, after its own fashion, 
the circumstances of his marriage. 

They may be told briefly here. Peytel was of a good family, 
of Macon, and entitled, at his mother's death, to a considerable 
property. He had been educated as a notary, and had lately 
purchased a business, in that line, in Belle}', for which he had 
paid a large sum of money ; part of the sum, 15,000 francs, 
for which he had given bills, was still due. 

Near Belley, Peytel first met FeUcite Alcazar, who was re- 



236 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

siding with her brother-in-law, Monsieur de Montriehard ; and, 
knowing that the 3'oung lady's fortune was considerable, he 
made an ofter of marriage to the brother-in-law, who thought 
tlie match advantageous, and communicated on the subject 
with Felicite's mother, Madame Alcazar, at Paris. After a 
time Peytel went to Paris, to press his suit, and was accepted. 
There seems to have been no affectation of love on his side ; 
and some little repugnance on the part of the lad3^ who yielded, 
however, to the wishes of her parents, and was married. The 
parties began to quarrel on the very day of the marriage, and 
continued their disputes almost to the close of the unhappy 
connection. FeUcite was half blind, passionate, sarcastic, 
clumsy in her person and manners, and ill educated ; Peytel, 
a man of considerable intellect and pretensions, who had lived 
for some time at Paris, where he had mingled with good literary 
society. The lady was, in fact, as disagreeable a person as 
could well be, and the evidence describes some scenes which 
took place between her and her husband, showing how deeply 
she must have mortified and enraged him. 

A charge very clearly made out against Peytel, is that of 
dishonesty ; he procured from the notary of whom he bought 
his place an acquittance in full, whereas there were 15,000 
francs owing, as we have seen. He also, in the contract of 
marriage, which was to have resembled, in all respects, that 
between Monsieur Broussais and another Demoiselle Alcazar, 
caused an alteration to be made in his favor, which gave him 
command over his wife's funded property, without furnishing 
the guarantees by which the other son-in-law was bound. 
And, almost immediatel}' after his marriage, Peytel sold out 
of the funds a sum of 50,000 francs, that belonged to his wife, 
and used it for his own purposes. 

About two months after his marriage, Peytel pressed his wife 
to make her will. He had made his, he said, leaving every- 
thing to her, in case of his death : after some parley, the poor 
thing consented.* This is a cruel suspicion against him ; and 

* " Peytel," says the act of accusation, " did not fail to see the danger 
which would menace him, if this will (which had escaped the magistrates 
in their search of Peytel's papers) was discovered. He, therefore, in- 
structed his agent to take possession of it, which he did, and the fact was 
not mentioned for several months afterwards. Peytel and his agent were 
called upon to explain the circumstance, but refused, and their silence for 
a long time interrupted the 'instruction'" (getting up of the evidence). 
" All that could be obtained from them was an avowal, that such a will 
existed, constituting Peytel his wife's sole legatee ; and a promise, on their 
parts, to produce it before the court gave its sentence." But why keep the 



THE CASE OF PEYTEl.. 237 

Mr. Substitute has no need to enlarge upon it. As for the 
previous fact, the dishonest statement about the 15,000 francs, 
there is nothing murderous in that — nothing which a man very 
eager to make a good marriage might not do. The same may 
be said of the suppression, in Pe^^tel's marriage contract, of 
the clause to be found in Broussais's, placing restrictions upon 
the use of the wife's mone3\ Mademoiselle d' Alcazar's friends 
read the contract before they signed it, and might have refused 
it, had they so pleased. 

After some disputes, which took place between Peytel and 
his wife (there were continual quarrels, and continual letters 
passing between them from room to room), the latter was in- 
duced to write him a couple of exaggerated letters, swearing 
" by the ashes of her father" that she would be an obedient 
wife to him, and entreating him to counsel and direct her. 
These letters were seen by members of the lady's family, who, 
in the quarrels between the couple, always took the husband's 
part. They were found in Peytel's cabinet, after he had been 
arrested for the murder, and after he had had full access to all 
his papers, of which he destroj^ed or left as many as he pleased. 
The accusation makes it a matter of suspicion against Peytel, 
that he should have left these letters of his wife's in a conspicu- 
ous situation. 

"All these circumstances," says the accusation, " throw a 
frightful light upon Peytel's plans. The letters and will of 
Madame Peytel are in the hands of her husband. Three months 
pass away, and this poor woman is brought t© her home, in the 
middle of the night, with two balls in her head, stretched at 
the bottom of her carriage, by the side of a peasant." 

" What other than Sebastian Peytel could have committed 
this murder? — whom could it profit? — who but himself had 
an odious chain to break, and an inheritance to receive? Why 
speak of the servant's projected robbery ? The pistols found by 
the side of Louis's body, the balls bought by him at Macon, 
and those discovered at Belley among his effects, were only the 
result of a perfidious combination. The pistol, indeed, which 
was found on the hill of Darde, on the night of the 1st of 
November, could only have belonged to Pe3'tel, and must have 
been thrown by him, near the body of his domestic, with the 

will secret ? The anxiety about it was surely absurd and unnecessary : 
the whole of Madame Peytel's family knew that such a will was made. 
She had consulted her sister concerning it, who said — " If there is no 
other way of satisfying him, make the will ; " and the mother, when she 
heard of it, cried out — " Does he intend to poison her 1 " 



238 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

paper which had before enveloped it. Who had seen this pistol 
in the hands of Louis ? Among all the gendarmes, work- women, 
domestics, emplo3'^ed by Peytel and his brother-in-law, is there 
one single witness who had seen this weapon in Louis's posses- 
sion? It is true that Madame Peytel did, on one occasion, 
speak to M. de Montrichard of a pistol ; which had nothing to 
do, however, with that found near Louis Rey." 

Is this justice, or good reason? Just reverse the argument, 
and appl}' it to Rey. "Who but Rey could have committed 
this murder ? — who but Rey had a large sum of money to seize 
upon? — a pistol is found by his side, balls and powder in his 
pocket, other balls in his trunks at home. The pistol found 
near his body could not, indeed, have belonged to Peytel : did 
any man ever see it in his possession ? The verj^ gunsmith who 
sold it, and who knew Peytel, would he not have known that he 
had sold him this pistol? At his own house, Peytel has a col- 
lection of weapons of all kinds ; everybod}^ has seen them — a 
man who makes such collections is anxious to display them. 
Did any one ever see this weapon? — Not one. And Madame 
Peytel did, in her lifetime, remark a pistol in the valet's posses- 
sion. She was short-sighted, and could not particularize what 
kind of pistol it was ; but she spoke of it to her husband and 
her brother-in-law." This is not satisfactory, if you please ; 
but, at least, it is as satisfactory as the other set of suppositions. 
It is the very chain of argument which would have been brought 
against Louis Re}- by this ver}- same compiler of the act of 
accusation, had Rey survived, instead of Peytel, and had he, 
as most undoubtedly would have been the case, been tried for 
the murder. 

This argument was shortly put by Peytel's counsel : — "7/" 
Peytel had been killed by Rey in the struggle^ ivould you not have 
found Rey guilty of the murder of his master and mistress V It is 
such a dreadful dilemma, that I wonder how judges and law- 
yers could have dared to persecute Peytel in the manner which 
they did. 

After the act of accusation, which lays down all the suppo- 
sitions against Peytel as facts, which will not admit the truth 
of one of the prisoner's allegations in his own defence, comes 
the trial. The judge is quite as impartial as the preparer of 
the indictment, as will be seen by the following specimens of his 
interrogatories : — 

Judge. "The act of accusation finds in your statement 
contradictions, improbabilities, impossibiUties. Thus your do- 
mestic, who had determined to assassinate you, in order to rob 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 239 

you, and who must have calculated upon the consequence of a 
failure^ had neither passport nor mone}^ upon him. This is very 
unlikely ; because he could not have gone far with onl}' a single 
halfpenny, which was all he had." 

Prisoner. ''My servant was known, and often passed the 
frontier without a passport." 

Judge. " Tour domestic had to assassinate two persons^ and 
had no weapon but a single pistol. He had no dagger ; and the 
onl}^ thing found on him was a knife." 

Prisoner. ' ' In the car there were several turner's imple- 
ments, which he might have used." 

Judge. " But he had not those arms upon him, because 3'ou 
pursued him immediately. He had, according to you, onl}' this 
old pistol." 

Prisoner. " I have nothing to sa3^" 

Judge. " Your domestic, instead of fl3ing into woods, which 
skirt the road, ran straight forward on the road itself: this^ 
again^ is very unlikely." 

Prisoner. ' ' This is a conjecture I could answer by another 
conjecture ; I can only reason on the facts." 

Judge. " How far did 3'ou pursue him? " 

Prisoner. " I don't know exactl3^" 

Judge. " You said ' two hundred paces.' " 

No answer from the prisoner. 

Judge. " l^our domestic was young, active, robust, and tall. 
He was ahead of vou. Y^'ou were in a carriage, from which 3'ou 
had to descend : 3'ou had to take 3-our pistols from a cushion, 
and then your hammer ; — how are we to believe that you could 
have caught him, if he ran? It is impossible." 

Prisoner. " I can't explain it: I think that Re3'^ had some 
defect in one leg. I, for m3' part, run tolerably fast." 

Judge. " At what distance from him did 3'ou lire 3^our first 
shot?" 

Prisoner. " I can't tell."" 

Judge. " Perhaps he was not running when 3'OU fired." 

Prisoner. " I saw him running." 

Judge. " In what position was 3'our wife? " 

Prisoner. " She was leaning on my left arm, and the man 
was on the right side of the carriage." 

Judge. " The shot must have been fired a bout portant, be- 
cause it burned the eyebrows and lashes entirely. The assas- 
sin must have passed his pistol across 3'our breast.'' 

Prisoner. ' ' The shot was not fired so close ; I am convinced 
of it : professional gentlemen will prove it." 



240 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Judge. " That is what you pretend^ because you ^understand 
'perfectly the consequences of admitting the fact. Your wife was 
hit with two balls — one striking downwards, to the right, b}^ 
the nose, the other going horizontally through the cheek, to the 
left." 

Prisoner. *' The contrary will be shown by the witnesses 
called for the purpose." 

Judge. " It is a very unlucky combination for you that these 
balls, which went, you say, from the same pistol, should have 
taken two different directions." 

Prisoner. " I can't dispute about the various combinations 
of fire-arms — professional persons will be heard." 

Judge. " According to your statement, your wife eaid to 
you, ' My poor husband, take j-our pistols.' " 

Prisoner. '^ She did." 

Judge. " In a manner quite distinct." 

Prisoner. "Yes." 

Judge. " So distinct that 3^ou did not fancy she was hit?" 

Prisoner. " Yes ; that is the fact." 

Judge. ''•Here, again ^ is an impossibility; and nothing is 
more precise than the declaration of the medical men. They 
affirm that your wife could not have spoken — their report is 
unanimous." 

Prisoner. " I can only opjjose to it quite contrary opinions 
from professional men, also : 3'ou must hear them." 
Judge. ' ' What did j^our wife do next ? " 



Judge. " You deny the statements of the witnesses :" (they 
related to Peytel's demeanor and behavior, which the judge 
wishes to show were ver}^ unusual ; — and what if they were?) 
" Here, however, are some mute witnesses, whose testimony, 
you will not perhaps refuse. Near Louis Re3^'s bodj^ was found a 

horse-cloth, a pistol, and a whip Your domestic must 

have had this cloth upon him when he went to assassinate 3'Ou : 
it was wet and heav3^ An assassin disencumbers himself 
of an3'thing that is like 13^ to impede him, especialty when he is 
going to struggle with a man as young as himself." 

Prisoner. " My servant had, I believe, this covering on his 
body ; it might be usefid to him to keep the priming of his 
pistol dry." 

The president caused the cloth to be opened, and showed 
that there was no hook, or tie, b3^ which it could be held to- 
gether ; and that Rey must have held it with one hand, and, in. 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 241 

the other, his whip, and the pistol with which he intended to 
commit the crime ; which was impossible. 

Prisoner. " These are only conjectures." 

And what conjectures, m}^ God ! upon which to take away 
the life of a man. Jeffreys, or Fouquier Tinville, could scarce- 
ly have dared to make such. Such prejudice, such bitter perse- 
cution, such priming of the jur^^, such monstrous assumptions 
and unreason — fanc}^ them coming from an impartial judge ! 
The man is worse than the public accuser. 

" Rey," says the Judge, "could not have committed the 
murder, because he had no money in his pockety to fly^ in case of 
failure.'' And what is the precise sum that his lordship thinks 
necessar}' for a gentleman to have, before he makes such an 
attempt? Are the men who murder for money, usually in pos- 
session of a certain independence before the}^ begin? How 
much money was Rey, a servant, who loved wine and women, 
had been stopping at a score of inns on the road, and had, 
probably, an annual income of 400 francs, — how much money 
was Rey likely to have ? 

" Tour servant had to assassinate two persons.'* This I have 
mentioned before. Why had he to assassinate two persons,* 
when one was enough ? If he had killed Peytel, could he not 
have seized and gagged his wife immediate^? 

' ' Your domestic ran straight forward^ instead of taking to the 
ivoods, by the side of the road : this is very unlikely." How does 
his worship know ? Can any judge, however enlightened, tell 
the exact road that a man will take, who has just missed a coup 
of murder, and is pursued b}^ a man who is firing pistols at 
him ? And has a judge a right to instruct a jur}^ in this way, 
as to what they shall, or shall not, believe ? 

" You have to run after an active man, who has the start of 
3"0U : to jump out of a carriage ; to take 3'our pistols ; and then^ 
3'our hammer. This is impossible." By heavens ! does it not 
make a man's blood boil, to read such blundering, blood-seek- 
ing sophistry? This man, when it suits him, shows that Re}' 
would be slow in his motions ; and when it suits him, declares 
that Rey ought to be quick ; declares ex cathedra., what pace 
Re}^ should go, and what direction he should take ; shows, in a 
breath, that he must have run faster than Peytel ; and then, 
that he could not run fast, because the cloak clogged him ; set- 

* M. Balsac's theory of the case is, that Rey had intrigued with Ma- 
dame Peytel ; having known her previous to her marriage, when she was 
staying in the house of her brother-in-law, Monsieur de Montrichard, where 
Rey had been a servant. 

16 



242 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

ties how he is to be dressed when he commits a murder, and 
what money he is to have in his pocket ; gives these impossi- 
ble suppositions to the jur}', and tells them that the previous 
statements are impossible ; and, finalh', informs them of the 
precise manner in which Rey must have stood holding his 
horse-cloth in one hand, his whip and pistol in the other, when 
he made the supposed attempt at murder. Now, what is the 
size of a horse-cloth? Is it as big as a pocket-handkerchief? 
Is there no possibilit}^ that it might hang over one shoulder ; 
that the whip should be held under that very arm ? Did 3'ou 
never see a carter so carry it, his hands in his pockets all the 
while? Is it monstrous, abhorrent to nature, that a man should 
fire a pistol from under a cloak on a rainy day ? — that he 
should, after firing the shot, be frightened, and run ; run 
straight before him, with the cloak on his shoulders, and the 
weapon in his hand? Peytel's story is possible, and verj^ pos- 
sible ; it is almost probable. Allow that Rey had the cloth 
on, and you allow that he must have been clogged in his mo- 
tions ; that Peytel may have come up with him — felled him 
with a blow of the hammer ; the doctors say that he would 
have so fallen by one blow — he would have fallen on his face, 
as he was found : the paper might have been thrust into his 
breast, and tumbled out as he fell. Circumstances far more 
impossible have occurred ere this ; and men have been hanged 
for them, who were as innocent of the crime laid to their 
charge as the judge on the bench, who convicted them. 

In like manner, Peytel may not have committed the crime 
charged to him ; and Mr. Judge, with his arguments as to 
possibilities and impossibilities, — Mr. Pubhc Prosecutor, with 
his romantic narrative and inflammatory harangues to the jury, 
— ma}' have used all these powers to bring to death an innocent 
man. From the animus with which the case had been conducted 
from beginning to end, it was easy to see the result. Here it is, 
in the words of the provincial paper : — 

BouRG, 28 October, 1839. 

" The condemned Peytel has just undergone his punishment, 
which took place four days before the anniversary of his crime. 
The terrible drama of the bridge of Andert, which cost the life 
of two persons, has just terminated on the scaffold. Mid-day 
had just sounded on the clock of the Palais : the same clock 
tolled midnight when, on the 30th of August, his sentence was 
pronounced. 

'' Since the rejection of his appeal in Cassation, on which 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 243 

his principal hopes were founded, Peytel spoke little of his 
petition to the King. The notion of transportation was that 
which he seemed to cherish most. However, he made several 
inquiries from the gaoler of the prison, when he saw him at 
meal-time, with regard to the place of execution, the usual hour, 
and other details on the subject. From that period, the words 
^ Champ de Foire' (the fair- ti eld, where the execution was to be 
held), were frequentl}' used by him in conversation. 

" Yesterda}', the idea that the time had arrived seemed to 
be more strongly than ever impressed upon him ; especiall}'' 
after the departure of the cure, who latterly has been with him 
every day. The documents connected with the trial had ar- 
rived in the morning. He was ignorant of this circumstance, 
but sought to discover from his guardians what they tried to 
hide from him ; and to find out whether his petition was rejected, 
and when he was to die. 

" Y'esterday, also, he had written to demand the presence 
of his counsel, M. Margerand, in order that he might have some 

conversation with him, and regulate his affairs, before he ; 

he did not write down the word, but left in its place a few 
points of the pen. 

"In the evening, whilst he was at supper, he begged ear- 
nestly to be allowed a little wax-candle, to finish what he was 
writing : otherwise, he said, Time might fail. This was a new, 
indirect manner of repeating his ordinar}- question. As light, 
up to that evening, had been refused him, it was thought best 
to deny him in this, as in former instances ; otherwise his sus- 
picions might have been confirmed. The keeper refused his 
demand. 

" This morning, Monday, at nine o'clock, the Greffier of the 
Assize Court, in fulfilment of the painful dut}' which the law 
inTposes upon him, came to the prison, in company with the 
cure of Bourg, and announced to the convict that his petition 
was rejected, and that he had only three hours to live. He 
received this fatal news with a great deal of calmness, and 
showed himself to be no more affected than he had been on the 
trial. ' I am ready ; but I wish they had given me four-and- 
twenty hours' notice,' — were all the words he used. 

" The GreflHer now retired, leaving Pe3'tel alone with the 
cure, who did not thenceforth quit him. Peytel breakfasted 
at ten o'clock. 

" At eleven, a piquet of mounted gendarmerie and infantry 
took their station upon the place before the prison, where a 
great concourse of people had already assembled. An opeij 



244 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

car was at the door. Before he went out Pej-tel asked the 
gaoler for a looking-glass ; and having examined his face for a 
moment, said, ' At least, the inhabitants of Bourg will see that 
I have not grown thin.' 

"As twelve o'clock sounded, the prison gates opened, an 
aide appeared, followed by Peytel, leaning on the -arm of the 
cure. Peytel's face was pale, he had a long black beard, a blue 
cap on his head, and his great-coat flung over his shoulders, 
and buttoned at the neck. 

' ' He looked about at the place and the crowd ; he asked if 
the carriage would go at a trot ; and on being told that that 
would be difficult, he said he would prefer walking, and asked 
what the road was. He immediately set out, walking at a firm 
and rapid pace. He was not bound at all. 

" An immense crowd of people encumbered the two streets 
through which he had to pass to the place of execution. He 
cast his eyes alternately upon them and upon the guillotine, 
which was before him. 

" Arrived at the foot of the scaffold, Peytel embraced the 
cure, and bade him adieu. He then embraced him again ; 
perhaps, for his mother and sister. He then mounted the steps 
rapidly, and gave himself into the hands of the executioner, 
who removed his coat and cap. He asked how he was to place 
himself, and on a sign being made, he flung himself briskly on 
the plank, and stretched his neck. In another moment he was 
no more. 

" The crowd, which had been quite silent, retired, profoundly 
moved by the sight it had witnessed. As at all executions, 
there was a very great number of women present. 

" Under the scaffold there had been, ever since the morning, 
a coffin. The family had asked for his remains, and had them 
immediately buried, privately : and thus the unfortunate man's 
head escaped the modellers in wax, several of whom had arrived 
to take an impression of it." 

Down goes the axe ; the poor wretch's head rolls gasping 
into the basket ; the spectators go home, pondering ; and Mr. 
Executioner and his aides have, in half an hour, removed all 
traces of the august sacrifice, and of the altar on which it had 
been performed. Say, Mr. Briefless, do you think that any 
single person, meditating murder, would be deterred there- 
from by beholding this — nay, a thousand more executions ? 
It is not for moral improvement, as I take it, nor for oppor- 
tunity to make appropriate remarks upon the punishment of 
crime, that people make a holiday of a killing-day, and leave 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 245 

their homes and occupations, to flock and witness the cutting 
off of a head. Do we crowd to see Mr. Macready in the new 
tragedy, or Mademoiselle Ellssler in her last new ballet and 
flesh-colored stockinnet pantaloons, out of a pure love o^ 
abstract poetry and beauty ; or from a strong notion that we 
shall be excited, in different ways, by the actor and the dancer? 
And so, as* we go to have a meal of fictitious terror at the tragedy, 
of something more questionable in the ballet, we go for a glut 
of blood to the execution. The lust is in every man's nature, 
more or less. Did you ever witness a wrestling or boxing 
match? The first clatter of the kick on the shins, or the first 
drawing of blood, makes the stranger shudder a little ; but soon 
the blood is his chief enjoyment, and he thirsts for it with a 
fierce delight. It is a fine grim pleasure that we have in seeing 
a man killed ; and I make no doubt that the organs of destruc- 
tiveness must begin to throb and swell as we witness the de- 
lightful savage spectacle. 

Three or four years back, when Fieschi and Lacenaire were 
executed, I made attempts to see the execution of both ; but 
was disappointed in both cases. In the first instance, the day 
for Fieschi' s death was, purposel}', kept secret ; and he was, if 
I remember rightly, executed at some remote quarter of the 
town. But it would have done a philanthropist good, to 
witness the scene which we saw on the morning when his 
execution did not take place. 

It was carnival time/ and the rumor had pretty generally 
been carried abroad that he was to die on that morning. A 
friend, who accompanied me, came manj^ miles, through the 
mud and dark, in order to be in at the death. We set out 
before light, floundering through the muddy Champs Elysees ; 
where, besides, were manj^ other persons floundering, and all 
bent upon the same errand. We passed by the Concert of 
Musard, then held in the Rue St. Honore ; and round this, in 
the wet, a number of coaches were collected. The ball was 
just up, and a crowd of people in hideous masquerade, drunk, 
tired, dirt}' , dressed in horrible old frippery, and daubed with 
filthy rouge, were trooping out of the place : tipsy women and 
men, shrieking, jabbering, gesticulating, as French will do ; 
parties swaggering, staggering forwards, arm in arm, reeling 
to and fro across the street, and 3'elling songs in chorus : hun- 
dreds of these were bound for the show, and we thought our- 
selves luck}' in finding a vehicle to the execution place, at the 
Barriere d'Enfer. As we crossed the river and entered the 
Enfer Street, crowds of students, black workmen, and more 



246 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

drunken devils from more carnival balls, were filling it ; and on 
the grand place there were thousands of these assembled, look- 
ing out for Fieschi and his cortege. We waited and waited ; 
but alas ! no fun for us that morning : no throat-cutting ; no 
august spectacle of satisfied justice ; and the eager spectators 
were obliged to return, disappointed of their expected breakfast 
of blood. It would have been a fine scene, that execution, 
could it but have taken place in the midst of the mad mounte- 
banks and tipsy strumpets who had flocked so far to witness it, 
wishing to wind up the delights of their carnival b}- a bonne- 
bouche of a murder. 

The other attempt was equall}^ unfortunate. We arrived too 
late on the ground to be present at the execution of Lacenaire 
and his co-mate in murder, Avril. But as we came to the 
ground (a gloomy round space, within the barrier — three 
roads lead to it ; and, outside, you see the wine-shops and 
restaurateurs' of the barrier looking gaj^ and inviting,) — as we 
came to the ground, we only found, in the midst of it, a little 
pool of ice, just partially tinged with red. Two or three idle 
street-bo3's were dancing and stamping about this pool ; and 
when I asked one of them whether the execution had taken 
place, he began dancing more madly than ever, and shrieked 
out with a loud fantastical, theatrical voice, " Venez tons 
Messieurs et Dames, voj'ez ici le sang du monstre Lacenaire, 
et de son compagnon le traitre Avril," or words to that effect ; 
and straightway all the other gamins screamed out the words in 
chorus, and took hands and danced round the little puddle. 

O august Justice, your meal was followed by a prettv appro- 
priate grace ! Was any man, who saw the show, deterred, or 
frightened, or moralized in any wa}"? He had gratified his 
appetite for blood, and this was all. There is something 
singularlj' pleasing, both in the amusement of execution-seeing, 
and in the results. You are not only delightfully excited at 
the time, but most pleasingly relaxed afterwards ; the mind, 
which has been wound up painfully until now, becomes quite 
complacent and eas}^ There is something agreeable in the 
misfortunes of others, as the philosopher has told us. Remark 
what a good breakfast you eat after an execution ; how pleasant 
it is to cut jokes after it, and upon it. This merrj^, pleasant 
mood is brought on by the blood tonic. 

But, for God's sake, if we are to enjoy this, let us do so in 
moderation ; and let us, at least, be sure of a man's guilt before 
we murder him. To kill him, even with the full assurance that 
he is guilt\', is hazardous enough. Who gave you the right to 



THE CASE OF PEYTEL. 247 

do so? — ^^yoii, who cry out against suicides, as impious and 
contraiy to Christian law ? What use is there in killing him ? 
You deter no one else from committing the crime by so doing : 
you give us, to be sure, half an hour's pleasant entertainment ; 
but it is a great question whether we clerive much moral profit 
from the sight. If 3T)U want to keep a murderer from farther 
inroads upon societ}', are there not plenty of hulks and prisons, 
God wot ; treadmills, galleys, and houses of correction? Above 
all, as in the case of Sebastian Peytel and his family, there have 
been two deaths already ; was a third death absolutel}' necessary ? 
and, taking the fahibility of judges and lawyers into his heart, 
and remembering the thousand instances of unmerited punish- 
ment that have been suffered, upon similiar and stronger evidence 
before, can any man cfeclare, positively and upon his oath, that 
Peytel was guilty, and that this was not the third murder in the 
family ? 



FOUR IMITATIONS OF BERANGEE. 



LE ROI D'YVETOT. 

Il etait nn roi cl'Yvetot, 

Pen connu clans I'histoire ; 
Se levant tarcl, se couchant tot, 

Dormant fort bien sans gloire, 
Et couronne par Jeanneton 
D'un simple bonnet cle coton, 
Dit-on. 
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! 
Quel bon petit roi c'etait la ! 
La, la. 

II fesait ses quatre repas 

Dans son palais de chaume, 
Et siir nn tine, pas a pas, 

Parcourait son reyaume. 
Joyeux, simple et croyant le bien, 
Pour toute garde il n'avait rien 
Qu'un chien. 
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c. 
La, la. 

II n'avait de goiit onereux 
Qu'une soif un pen vive ; 
Mais, en rendant son penple heureux, 

II faux bien qu'un roi vive. 
Lui-meme a table, et sans suppot, 
Sur chaque mnid levait un pot 
D'impot. 
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c. 
La, la. 



FOUR IMITATIONS OF BERA^^GER. 249 

Aux filles de bonnes maisons 

Comme il avait su plaire, 
Ses snjets avaient cent raisons 

De le nommer leur pere : 
D'ailleurs il ne levait de ban 
Que pour tirer quatre fois I'an 
Au blaiic. 
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! dkc. 
La, la. 

II n'agrandit point ses etats, 

Fut un voisin commode, 
Et, modele des potentate, 
Prit le plaisir pour code. 
Ce n'est que lorsqu'il expira, 
Que le peuple qui I'enterra 
Pleura. 
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &o. 
La, la. 

On conserve encor le portrait 
De ce digne et bon prince ; 
C'est I'enseigne d'un cabaret 
Fameux dans la province. 
Les jours de fete, bien souvent, 
La foule s'ecrie en buvant 
Devant : 
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah I 
Quel bon petit roi c'etait la ! 
La, la. 



TFIE KING OF YVETOT. 

There was a king of Yvetot, 

Of whom renown hath little said, 
Who let all thoughts of glor}' go, 

And dawdled half his daj's a-bed ; 
And ever}' night, as night came round, 
By Jenny, with a nightcap crowned. 
Slept very sound : 
Sing, ho, ho, ho ! and he, he, he 
That's the kind of kino' for me. 



250 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

And every day it came to pass, 

That four lust}^ meals made he ; 
And, step by step, upon an ass, 

Rode abroad, his realms to see ; 
And wherever he did stir, 
What think you was his escort, sir? 
Why, an old cur. 
Sing, ho, ho, ho ! &c. 

If e'er he went into excess, 

'Twas from a somewhat livelj^ thirst ; 
But he who would his subjects bless, 

Odd's fish ! — must wet his whistle first ; 
And so from every cask they got, 
Our king did to himself allot. 
At least a pot, 
Sing, ho, ho ! &c. 

To all the ladies of the land, 

A courteous king, and kind, was he ; 
The reason why you'll understand, 

The}' named him Pater Patriae. 
Each year he called his fighting men. 
And marched a league from home, and then 
Marched back again. 
Sing, ho, ho ! &c. 

Neither by force nor false pretence, 

He sought to make his kingdom great, 
And made (O princes, learn from hence) — 

" Live and let live," his rule of state. 
Twas only when he came to die, 
That his people who stood by, 

Were known to cry. 
Sing, ho, ho ! &c. 

The portrait of this best of kings 

Is extant still, upon a sign 
That on a village tavern swings, 

Famed in the countr}' for good wine* 
The people, in their Sunda}- trim, 
FilUng their glasses to the brim. 
Look up to him. 
Singing, ha, ha, ha ! and he, he he 1 
That's the sort of king for me. 



FOUR IMITATIONS OF BfiRANGER. 251 



THE KING OF BRENTFORD. 

ANOTHER VERSION. 

There was a king in Brentford, — of whom no legends tell, 
But who, without his glory, — could eat and sleep right well. 
His Polly's cotton nightcap, — it was his crown of state, 
He slept of evenings early, — and rose of mornings late. 

All in a fine mud palace, — each day he took four meals, 
And for a guard of honor, — a dog ran at his heels, 
Sometimes, to view his kingdoms, — rode forth this monarch 

good. 
And then a prancing jackass — he roj^ally bestrode. 

There were no costly habits — with which this king was curst, 
Except (and where's the harm on't?) — a somewhat lively thirst ; 
But people must pa}^ taxes, — and kings must have their sport. 
So out of every gallon — His Grace he took ^ quart. 

He pleased the ladies round him, — with manners soft and 

bland ; 
With reason good, the}^ named him, — the father of his land. 
Each year his mighty armies — marched forth in gallant show ; 
Their enemies were targets, — their bullets they were tow. 

He vexed no quiet neighbor, — no useless conquest made. 
But by the laws of pleasure, — his peaceful realm he swaj-ed. 
And in the years he reigned, — through all this countr}" wide, 
There was no cause for weeping, — save when the good man 
died. 



The faithful men of Brentford, — do still their king deplore. 
His portrait yet is swinging, — beside an ale-house door. 
And topers, tender-hearted, — regard his honest phiz, 
.\nd cnv}' times departed, — that knew a reign like his. 



262 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



LE GRENIER. 

Je viens revoir I'asile ou ma jeunesse 
De la misere a subi les leQons. 
J'avais vingt ans, une folle maitresse, 
De francs amis et I'amour des chansons 
Bravant le monde et les sots et les sages, 
Sans avenir, riche de mon printemps, 
Leste et joyeux je montais six etages. 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans ! 

C'est un grenier, point ne veiix qu'on I'ignore. 
Lk fut mon lit, bien chetif et bien dur ; 
La fut ma table ; et je retrouve encore 
Trois pieds d'un vers charbonnes sur le mur. 
Apparaissez, plaisirs de mon bel age, 
Que d'un coup d'aile a fustiges le temps, 
Vingt fois pour vous j'ai mis ma montre en gage. 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans ! 

Lisette ici doit surtout apparaitre, 
Vive, jolie, avec un frais chapeau ; 
Deja sa main a I'etroite fenetre 
Suspend son schal, en guise de rideau. 
Sa robe aussi va parer ma couchette ; 
Respecte, Amour, ses plis longs et flottans. 
J'ai su depuis qui pa3'ait sa toilette. 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans I 

A table un jour, jour de grande richesse, 
De mes amis les voix brillaient en choeur, 
Quand jusqu'ici monte un cri d'allegresse : 
A Marengo Bonaparte est vainqueur. 
Le canon gronde ; un autre chant commence ; 
Nous celebrons taut de faits eclatans. 
Les rois jamais n'envahiront la France. 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien k vingt ans ! 



FOUR IMITATIONS OF B:ERANGER. 253 

Quittons ce toit ou ma raison s'enivre. 
Oh ! qu'ils sont loin ces jours si regrett^s ! 
J'echangerais ce qu'il me reste a vivre 
Contre im cles mois qu'ici Dieu m'a comptes, 
Pour rever gloire, amour, plaisir, folie, 
Pour depenser sa vie en pen d'instans, 
D'un long espoir pour la voir embellie, 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a viugt am I 



THE GARRET. 

"With pensive eyes the little room I view, 

Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long; 
With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two, 

And a light heart still breaking into song : 
Making a mock of life, and all its cares, 

Rich in the glory of my rising sun, 
Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs. 

In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 

Yes ; 'tis a garret — let him know't who will — 

There was m}^ bed — full hard it was and small. 
My table there — and I decipher still 

Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall. 
Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away. 

Come to mine ej^es, ye dreams of love and fun ; 
For 3^ou I pawned my watch how man}' a day, 

In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 

And see my little Jessy, first of all ; 

She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes ; 
Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl 

Across the narrow casement, curtain- wise ; 
Now by the bed her petticoat glides down, 

And when did woman look the worse in none ? 
I have heard since who paid for many a gown, 

In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 



254 THE PARTS SKETCH BOOK. 

One jolly evening, when my friends fCnd I 

Made happy music with our songs and cheers, 
A shout of triumph mounted up thus high, 

And distant cannon opened on our ears : 
We rise, — we join in the triumphant strain, — 

Napoleon conquers — Austerlitz is won — 
Tyrants shall never tread us down again, 

In the brave clays when I was twenty-one. 

Let us begone — the place is sad and strange — 

How far, far off, these happy times appear; 
All that I have to live I'd gladly change 

For one such month as I have wasted here — 
To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power, 

From founts of hope that never will outrun, 
And drink all life's quintessence in an hour, 

Give me the days when I was twenty-one 1 



ROGER-BONTEMPS. 

Aux gens atrabilaires 
Pour exemple donne. 
En un temps de miseres 
Roger-Bontemps est ne. 
Vivre obscur a sa guise, 
Narguer les mecontens : 
Eh gai ! c'est la devise 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 

Du chapeau de son pere 
Coiffe dans le grands jours, 
De roses ou de lierre 
Le rajeunir toujours ; 
Mettre un manteau de bure, 
Vieil ami de vingt ans ; 
Eh gai ! c'est la parure 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 



FOUR DdlTATIONS OF BJERANGEK. 255 

Posseder dans sa hiitte 
Une table, iin vieux lit, 
Des cartes, une flute, 
Un broc que Dieu reraplit ; 
Un portrait de maitresse, 
Un coffre et rien dedans ; 
Eh gai ! c'est la richesse 
Du gros Roger- Bontemps. 

Aux enfans de la ville 
Montrer de petits jeux ; 
Etre fesseur habile 
De contes graveleux ; 
Ne parler que de danse 
Et d'almanachs chantans ; 
Eh gai ! c'est la science 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 

Faute de vins d'elite, 
Sabler ceux du canton : 
Preferer Marguerite 
Aux dames du grand ton : 
De joie et de tendresse 
Remplir tous ses instans ; 
Eh gai ! c'est la sagesse 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 

Dire au ciel : Je me fie, 
Mon pere, a ta bonte ; 
De ma philosophic 
Pardonne le gaite : 
« Que ma saison derniere 
Soit encore un printemps ; 
Eh gai ! c'est la priere 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 

Vous, pauvres pleins d'envie, 
Vous, riches desireux, 
Vous, dont le char devie 
Apres un cours heureux ; 
Vous, qui perdrez peut-etre 
Des titres eclatans, 
Eh gai ! prenez pour maitre 
Le gros Roger Bontemps. 



256 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 



JOLLY JACK. 

When fierce political debate 

Throughout the isle was storming, 
And Rads attacked the throne and state, 

And Tories the reforming, 
To calm the furious rage of each, 

And right the land demented, . 
Heaven sent us Jolly Jack, to teach 

The way to be contented. 



Jack's bed was straw, 'twas warm and soft, 

His chair, a three-legged stool ; 
His broken jug was emptied oft, 

Yet, somehow, always full. 
His mistress' portrait decked the wall, 

His mirror had a crack ; 
Yet, gay and glad, though this was all 

His wealth, lived Jolly Jack. 



To give advice to avarice. 

Teach pride its mean condition, 
And preach good sense to dull pretence, 

Was honest Jack's high mission. 
Our simple statesman found his rule 

Of moral in the flagon, 
And held his philosophic school 

Beneath the " George and Dragon." 



When village Solons cursed the Lords, 

And called the malt-tax sinful, 
Jack heeded not their angry words. 

But smiled, and drunk his skinful. 
And when men wasted health and life, 

In search of rank and riches. 
Jack marked, aloof, the paltry strife. 

And wore his threadbare breeches. 



FOUR IMITATIONS OF BiiRANGEB. 257 

*' I enter not the church," he said, 

" But I'll not seek to rob it ; " 
So worthy Jack Joe Miller read, 

While others studied Cobbett. 
His talk it was of feast and fun ; 

His guide the Almanack ; 
From youth to age thus gayly run 

The life of Jolly Jack. 



And when Jack prayed, as oft he "would, 

He humbly thanked his Maker ; 
*' I am," said he, " O Father good ! 

Nor Catholic nor Quaker : 
Give each his creed, let each proclaim 

His catalogue of curses ; 
I trust in Thee, and not in them, 

In Thee, and in Thy mercies I 



*' Forgive me if, midst all Thy works, 

No hint I see of damning ; 
And think there's faith among the Turks, 

And hope for e'en the Brahmin. 
Harmless my mind is, and my mirth. 

And kindly is m}^ laughter ; 
I cannot see the smiling earth, 

And think there's hell hereafter.** 



Jack died ; he left no legacy, 

Save that his story teaches : — 
Content to peevish poverty ; 

Humilit}^ to riches. 
Ye scornful great, ye envious small, 

Come, follow in his track ; 
We all were happier, if we all 

Would copy Jolly Jack. 
17 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 



There are three kinds of drama in France, which you may 
subdivide as much as you please. 

There is the old classical drama, wellnigh dead, and full 
time too : old tragedies, in which half a dozen characters ap- 
pear, and spout sonorous Alexandrines for half a dozen hours. 
The fair Rachel has been trying to revive this genre, and to 
untomb Racine ; but be not alarmed, Racine will never come 
to life again, and cause audiences to weep as of yore. Madame 
Rachel can only galvanize the corpse, not revivify it. Ancient 
French tragedy, red-heeled, patched, and be-periwigged, lies 
in the grave ; and it is only tlie ghost of it that we see, which 
the fair Jewess has raised. There are classical comedies in 
verse, too, wherein the knavisli valets, rakish heroes, stolid old 
guardians, and smart, free-spoken serving- women, discourse in 
Alexandrines, as loud as the Horaces or the Cid. An English- 
man will seldom reconcile himself to the roulement of the verses, 
and the painful recurrence of the rhymes; for my part, I had 
rather go to Madame Saqui's or see Deburau dancing on a rope : 
his lines are quite as natural and poetical. 

Then there is the comedj^ of the day, of which Monsieur 
Scribe is the father. Good heavens ! with what a number of 
gay colonels, smart widows, and silly husbands has that gentle- 
man peopled the play-books. How that unfortunate seventh 
commandment has been maltreated by him and his disciples. 
You will see four pieces, at the Gymnase, of a night ; and so 
sure as you see them, four husbands shall be wickedly used. 
When is this joke to cease? Mon Dieu ! Pla}'- writers have 
handled it for about two thousand 3'ears, and the public, like a 
great baby, must have the tale repeated to it over and over 
again. 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 259 

Finally, there is the Drama, that great monster which has 
sprung into life of late years ; and which is said, but I don't 
believe a word of it, to have Shaksi^eare for a father. If Mon- 
sieur Scribe's plays may be said to be so many ingenious ex- 
amples how to break one commandment, the drame is a grand 
and general chaos of them all ; nay, several crimes are added, 
not prohibited in the Decalogue, wliich was written before 
dramas were. Of the drama, Victor Hugo and Dumas are the 
well-known and respectable guardians. Every piece Victor 
Hugo has written, since " Hernani," has contained a monster 
— a -delightful monster, saved by one virtue. There is Tri- 
boulet, a foolish monster ; Lucrece Borgia, a maternal monster ; 
Mar}' Tudor, a religious monster ; Monsieur Quasimodo, a hump- 
back monster; and others, that might be named, whose mon- 
strosities we are induced to pardon — nay, admiringly to wit- 
ness — because they are agreeably mingled with some exquisite 
display of affection. And, as the great Hugo has one monster 
to each play, the great Dumas has, ordinarily, half a dozen, to 
whom murder is nothing ; common intrigue, and simple break- 
age of the before-mentioned commandment, nothing ; but who 
live and move in a vast, delightful complication of crime, that 
cannot be easih' conceived in England, much less described. 

When I think over the number of crimes that I have seen 
Mademoiselle Georges, for instance, commit, I am filled with 
wonder at her greatness, and the greatness of the poets who 
have conceived these charming horrors for her. I have seen 
her make love to, and murder, her sons, in the " Tour de 
Nesle." I have seen her poison a company of no less than 
nine gentlemen, at Ferrara, with an affectionate son in the 
number ; I have seen her, as Madame de Brinvilliers, kill off 
numbers of respectable relations in the first four acts ; and, at 
the last, be actually burned at the stake, to which she comes 
shuddering, ghastly, barefooted, and in a white sheet. Sweet 
excitement of tender sympathies ! Such tragedies are not so 
good as a real, downright execution ; but, in point of interest, 
the next thing to it : with what a number of moral emotions 
do they fill the breast ; with what a hatred for vice, and yet a 
true pity and respect for that grain of virtue that is to be found 
in us all : our blood}', daughter-loving Brinvilliers ; our warm- 
hearted, poisonous Lucretia Borgia ; above all, what a smart 
appetite for a cool supper afterwards, at the Cafe Anglais, 
when the horrors of the play act as a piquant sauce to the 
supper ! 

Or, to speak more serioush^ and to come, at last, to the 



260 THE PARTS SKETCH BOOK. 

point. After having seen most of the grand dramas which 
have been produced at Paris for the last half-dozen 3-ears, and 
thinking over all that one has seen, — the fictitious murders, 
rapes, adulteries, and other crimes, by which one has been 
interested and excited, — a man ma}' take leave to be heartily 
asliamed of the maimer in which he has spent his time ; and 
of the hideous kind of mental intoxication in which he has per- 
mitted himself to indulge. 

Nor are simple society outrages the onty sort of crime in 
which the spectator of Paris plays has permitted himself to 
indulge ; he has recreated himself with a deal of blasphemy 
besides, and has passed many pleasant evenings in beholding 
religion defiled and ridiculed. 

Allusion has been made, in a former paper, to a fashion that 
lately obtained in France, and which went b}' the name of 
Catholic reaction ; and as, in this happy country, fashion is 
everything, we have had not merely Catholic pictures and 
quasi rehgious books, but a number of Catholic plays have 
been produced, very edifying to the frequenters of the theatres 
or the Boulevards, who have learned more about religion from 
these performances than they have acquired, no doubt, in the 
whole of their lives before. In the course of a verj' few years 
we have seen — ' ' The Wandering Jew ; " " Belshazzar's Feast ; " 
"Nebuchadnezzar:" and the "Massacre of the Innocents;" 
" Joseph and his Brethren ; " " The Passage of the Red Sea ; " 
and "The Deluge." 

The great Dumas, like Madame Sand before mentioned, has 
brought a vast quantity of religion before the foot-lights. 
There was his famous tragedy of "Caligula," which, be it 
spoken to the shame of the Paris critics, was coldly received ; 
nay, actually hissed, by them. And why? Because, says 
Dumas, it contained a great deal too much piety for the 
rogues. The public, he sa3's, was much more religious, and 
understood him at once. 

" As for the critics," says he, nobly, " let those who cried 
out against the immorality of Antony and Marguerite de Bour- 
gogne, reproach me for the chastity of Mcssalina." (This dear 
creature is the heroine of the play of " Cahgula.") " It mat- 
ters little to me. These people have but seen the form of my 
work : they have walked round the tent, but have not seen the 
arch which it covered ; they have examined the vases and can- 
dles of the altar, but have not opened the tabernacle ! 

"The public alone has, instinctively, comprehended that 
there was, beneath this outward sign, an inward and myste- 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 261 

rious grace : it followed the action of the piece in all its serpen- 
tine windings ; it listened for four hours, with pious attention 
{avec recueillement et religion)^ to the sound of this rolling river 
of thoughts, which may have appeared to it new and bold, per- 
haps, but chaste and grave ; and it retired, with its head on 
its breast, like a man who had just perceived, in a dream, the 
solution of a problem which he has long and vainly sought in 
his waking hours." 

You see that not only Saint Sand is an apostle, in her way ; 
but Saint Dumas is another. We have people in England who 
write for bread, Jike Dumas and Sand, and are paid so much 
for their line ; but they don't set up for prophets. Mrs. Trol- 
lope has never declared that her novels are inspired by heaven ; 
Mr. Buckstone has written a great number of farces, and never 
talked about the altar and the tabernacle. Even Sir Edward 
Bulwer (who, on a similar occasion, when the critics found 
fault with a play of his, answered them b}' a pretty decent 
declaration of his own merits,) never ventured to say that he 
had received a divine mission, and was uttering five-act reve- 
lations. 

All things considered, the tragedy of " Caligula " is a decent 
tragedy ; as decent as the decent characters of the hero and 
heroine can allow it to be ; it may be almost said, provokingly 
decent: but this, it must be remembered, is the characteristio 
of the modern French school (nay, of the English school too) ; 
and if the writer take the character of a remarkable scoundrel, 
it is ten to one but he turns out an amiable fellow, in whom we 
have all the warmest sympathy. " Caligula" is killed at the 
end of the performance ; Messalina is comparatively well-be- 
haved ; and the sacred part of the performance, the tabernacle- 
characters apart from the mere ' ' vase " and ' ' candlestick " 
personages, may be said to be depicted in the person of a 
Christian convert, Stella, who has had the good fortune to be 
converted by no less a person than Mary Magdalene, when she, 
Stella, was staying on a visit to her aunt, near Narbonne. 

Stella [continuant.) Voila 

Que je vols s'avaiicer, sans pilote et sans rames, 
Une barque portant deux hommes et deux femmes, 
Et, spectacle inoui qui me ravit encor, 
Tous quatre avaient au front une aureole d'or 
D'ou partaient des rayons de si vive lumiere 
Que je f us obligee a baisser la paupie"re ; 
Et, lorsque je rouvris les yeux avec effroi, 
Les voyageurs divins e'taient aupres de moi. 
Un jour de chacun d'eux et dans toute sa gloire 



262 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Je te raconterai la marveilleuse liistoire, 
Et tu I'adoreras, j'espere ; en ce moment, 
Ma mere, il te suffit de savoir seulement 
Que tons quatre venaient du fond de la Syrie : 
Un edit les avait bunnis de leur patrie, 
Et, se faisant bourreaux, des hommes irrites. 
Sans avirons, sans eau, sans pain et garrotes, 
Sur une frele barque c'chouee au rivage, 
Les avaient a la uier i^ousses dans un orage. 
Mais a peine I'esquif eut-ii touchd les flots 
Qu'au cantique chante par les saints matelots, 
L'ouragan replia ses ailes fremissantes, 
Que la mer aplanit ses vagues mugissantes, 
Et qu'un soleil plus pur, reparaissant aux cieux, 
Enveloppa I'esquif d'un cercle radieux ! . . . 
JuNiA. — Mais c'e'tait un prodige. 

Stella. — Un miracle, ma m^re ! , 

Leurs fers tomberent seuls, I'eau cessa d'etre ambre, 
Et deux fois cliaque jour le bateau fut convert 
D'une manne pareille a celle du desert : 
C'est ainsi que, pousses par une main celeste, 
Je les vis aborder. 

JuNiA. — Oh ! dis vite le reste ! 

Stella. — A I'aube, trois d'entre eux quitterent la maison : 

Marthe prit le cliemin qui mene a Tarascon, 

Lazare et Maximin celui de Massilie, 

Et celle qui resta .... c'eiait la phis jolie, (how truly French!) 

Nous faisant appeler vers le milieu du jour, 

Demanda si les monts ou les bois d'alentour 

Cachaient quelque retraite inconnue et profonde. 

Qui la put separer a tout jamais du monde 

Aquila se souvint qu'il avait penetre 

Dans un autre sauvage et de tons ignore, 

Grotte creuse'e aux flancs de ces Alpes sublimes, 

Ou I'aigle fait son aire au-dessus des abimes. 

II offrit cet asile, et des le lendemain 

Tons deux, pour I'y guider, nous etions en chemin. 

Le soir du second jour nous touchames sa base : 

La, tombant a genoux dans une sainte extase, 

Elle pria long-temps,. puis vers I'antre inconnu, 

Denouant se chaussure, elle marcha pied nu. 

Nos prieres, nos cris resterent sans reponses : 

Au milieu des cailloux, des e'pines, des ronces. 

Nous la vimes monter, un baton a la main, 

Et ce n'est qu'arrivee au terme du chemin, 

Qu'enfin elle tomba sans force et sans haleine .... 
JuNiA. — Comment la nommait-on, ma fille ? 
Stella. — Madeleine. 

Walking, says Stella, by the sea-shore, " A bark drew near, 
that had nor sail nor oar ; two women and two men the vessel 
bore : each of that crew, 'twas wondrous to behold, wore round 
his head a ring of blazing gold ; from which such radiance glit- 
tered all around, that I was fain to look towards the ground. 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 263 

And when once more I raised my frightened e^yne, before me 
stood the travellers divine ; their rank, the glorious lot that 
each befell, at better season, mother, will I tell. Of this anon : 
the time will come when thou shalt learn to worship as I worship 
now. Suffice it, that from Syria's land the}- came ; an edict 
from their country banished them. Fierce, angry men had 
seized upon the four, and launched them in that vessel from the 
shore. They launched these victims on the waters rude ; nor 
rudder gave to steer, nor bread for food. As the doomed vessel 
cleaves the stormy main, that pious crew uplifts a sacred strain ; 
the angry waves are silent as it sings ; the storm, awe-stricken, 
folds its quivering wings. A purer sun appears the heavens to 
light, and wraps the little bark in radiance bright. 

" JuNiA. — Sure, 'twas a prodig3\ 

" Stella. — A miracle. Spontaneous from their hands the 
fetters fell. The salt sea- wave grew fresh, and, twice a da}^ 
manna (like that which on the desert lay) covered the bark and 
fed them on their way. Thus, hither led, at heaven's divine 
behest, I saw them land — 

"JuNiA. — My daughter, tell the rest. 

"Stella. — Three of the four, our mansion left at dawn. 
One, Martha, took the road to Tarascon ; Lazarus and Maxi- 
min to Massily ; but one remained (the fairest of the three), 
who asked us, if i' the woods or mountains near, there chanced 
to be some cavern lone and drear ; where she might hide, for 
ever, from all men. It chanced, my cousin knew of such a 
den ; deep hidden in a mountain's hoar}' breast, on which the 
eagle builds his airy nest. And thither offered he the saint 
to guide. Next day upon the journey forth we hied ; and came, 
at the second eve, with weary pace, unto the lonely mountain's 
rugged base. Here the worn traveller, falling on her knee, did 
pray awhile in sacred ecstasy ; and, drawing off her sandals 
from her feet, marched, naked, towards that desolate retreat. 
No answer made she to our cries or groans ; but walking midst 
the prickles and rude stones, a staff in hand, we saw her up- 
wards toil ; nor ever did she pause, nor rest the while, save at 
the entry of that savage den. Here, powerless and panting, 
fell she then. 

" JuNiA. — What was her name, m}^ daughter? 

"Stella. Magdalen." 

Here the translator must pause — having no inclination to 
enter " the tabernacle," in company with such a spotless high- 
priest as Monsieur Dumas. 



264 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Something " tabernacular " may be found in Dumas's famous 
piece of " Don Juan de Marana." Tiie poet has laid the scene 
of his pla}' in a vast number of places : in heaven (where we 
have the Virgin Mary and little angels, in blue, swinging cen- 
sers before her!) — on earth, under the earth, and in a place 
still lower, but not mentionable to ears polite ; and the plot, as 
it appears from a dialogue between a good and a bad angel, 
with which the play commences, turns upon a contest between 
these two worthies for the possession of the soul of a member of 
the family of Marana. 

" Don Juan de Marana" not only resembles his namesake, 
celebrated b}^ Mozart and Moliere, in his peculiar successes 
among the ladies, but possesses further qualities which render 
his character eminentl}" fitting for stage representation : he 
unites the virtues of Lovelace and Lacenaire ; he blasphemes 
upon all occasions ; he murders, at the slightest provocation, 
and without the most trifling remorse ; he overcomes ladies of 
rigid virtue, ladies of easy virtue, and ladies of no virtue at all ; 
and the poet, inspired b}' the contemplation of such a character, 
has depicted his hero's adventures and conversation with won- 
derful feeUng and truth. 

The fli-st act of the play contains a half-dozen of murders 
and intrigues ; which would have sufficed humbler genius than 
M. Dumas's, for the completion of, at least, half a dozen trage- 
dies. In the second act our hero flogs his elder brother, and 
runs away with his sister-in-law ; in the third, he fights a duel 
with a rival, and kills him : whereupon the mistress of his 
victim takes poison, and dies, in grejjt agonies, on the stage. 
In the fourth act, Don Juan, having entered a church for the 
purpose of carrying oflT a nun, with whom he is in love, is seized 
b}^ the statue of one of the ladies whom he has previousl}' vic- 
timized, and made to behold the ghosts of all those unfortunate 
persons whose deaths he has caused. 

This is a most edifying spectacle. The ghosts rise solemnl}^, 
each in a white sheet, preceded b}' a wax-candle ; and, having 
declared their names and qualities, call, in chorus, for ven- 
geance upon Don Juan, as thus : — 

Don Sandoval loquitur. 

" I am Don Sandoval d'Ojedo. I played against Don Juan 
my fortune, the tomb of my fathers, and the heart of m}^ 
mistress ; — I lost all : I played against him my life, and I lost 
it. Vengeance against the murderer! vengeance ! " — ( The can- 
die goes out.) 



FRENCH DKAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 265 

The candle goes out^ and an angel descends — a flamiilg 
sword in his liand — and asks : " Is there no voice in favor of 
Don Juan ? " when lo ! Don Juan's father (like one of those 
ingenious to3's called "Jack-in-the-box,") jumps up from his 
coffin, and demands grace for his son. 

When Martha the nun returns, having prepared all things 
for her elopement, she finds Don Juan fainting upon the 
ground. — "I am no longer your husband," says he, upon 
coming to himself; " I am no longer Don Juan ; I am Brother 
Juan the Trappist. Sister Martha, recollect that you must 
die ! " 

This was a most cruel blow upon Sister Martha, who is no 
less a person than an angel, an angel in disguise — the good 
spirit of the house of Marana, who has gone to the length of 
losing her wings and forfeiting her placerin heaven, in order to. 
keep company with Don Juan on earth, and, if possible, to con- 
vert him. Already, in her angelic character, she had exhorted 
him to repentance, but in vain ; for, while she stood at one 
elbow, pouring not merely hints, but long sermons, into his 
ear, at the other elbow stood a bad spirit, grinning and sneer- 
ing at all her pious counsels, and obtaining by far the greater 
share of the Don's attention. 

In spite, however, of the utter contempt with which Don 
Juan treats her, — in spite of his dissolute courses, which must 
shock her virtue, — and his impolite neglect, which must wound 
her vanity, the poor creature (who, from having been accus- 
tomed to better company, might have been presumed to have 
had better taste), the unfortunate angel feels a certain inclina- 
tion for the Don, and actually flies up to heaven to ask permis- 
sion to remain with him on earth. 

And when the curtain draws up, to the sound of harps, and 
discovers white-robed angels walking in the clouds, we find 
the angel of Marana upon her knees, uttering the following 
address : — 

LE BON ANGE. 

Vierge, "k qui le calice a la liqueur am^re 

Fut si souvent offert, 
M^re, que Ton nomma la douloureuse m^re, 

Tant vous avez souffert ! 

Vous, dont les yeux divins sur la terre des hommes 

Ont verse plus de pleurs 
Que vos pieds n'ont depuis, dans le ciel oil nous sommes. 
Fait eclore de fleurs. 



266 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

Vase d'election, etoile matinale, 

Miroir tie purete, 
Vous qui priez pour nous, d'une voix virginale, 

La supreme bonte ; 

A mon tour, aujourd'hui, bienheureuse Marie, 

Je tombe a vos genoux ; 
Daignez done m'e'couter, ear e'est vous que je priSy 

Vous qui priez pour nous. 

Which may be thus interpreted : — 

O Virgin blest ! by whom the bitter draught 

So often has been quaffed, 
That, for thy sorrow, thou art named by us 

The Mother Dolorous ! 

Thou, from whose eyes have fallen more tears of woe, 

Upon t*ie earth below, 
Than 'neath thy footsteps, jn this heaven of ours, 

Have risen flowers ! 

O beaming morning star! chosen vase! 

O mirror of all grace ! 
Who, with thy virgin voice, dost ever pray 

Man's sins away ; 

Bend down thine ear, and list, blessed saint! 

Unto m}^ sad complaint j 
Mother ! to thee I kneel, on thee I call. 

Who hearest all. 

She proceeds to request that she may be allowed to return to 
earth, and follow the fortunes of Don Juan ; and, as there is 
one difficulty, or, to use her own words, — 

Mais, comme vous savez qu'aux voiites eternelles, 

Malgre moi, tend mon vol, 
Soxifflez sur mon elo'ile et delachez vies ailes, 

Pour m'enchainer an sol ; 

her request is granted, her star is blown out (O poetic allusion !) 
and she descends to earth to love, and to go mad, and to die 
for Don Juan ! 

The reader will require no further explanation, in order to 
be satisfied as to the moral of this pla}^ : but is it not a very 
bitter satire upon the country, which calls itself the politest 
nation in the world, that the incidents, the indecency, the 
coarse blasphen^y, and the vulgar wit of this piece, should find 
admirers among the public, and procure reputation for the 
author? Could not the Government, which has re-established, 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 267 

in a manner, the theatrical censorship, and forbids or alters 
plays which touch on politics, exert the same guardianship over 
public morals ? The honest EngUsh reader, who has a faith in 
his clerg3'man, anji is a regular attendant at Sunday worship, 
will not be a little surprised at the march of intellect among our 
i neighbors across the Channel, and at the kind of consideration 
in which they hold their rehgion. Here is a man who seizes 
upon saints and angels, merel}^ to put sentiments in their 
mouths which might suit a nymph of Drury Lane. He shows 
heaven, in order that he ma}^ carry debauch into it ; and avails 
himself of the most sacred and sublime parts of our creed as a 
vehicle for a scene-painter's skill, or an occasion for a hand- 
some actress to wear a new dress. 

M. Dumas's piece of " Kean " is not quite so sublime ; it was 
brought out by the author as a satire upon the French critics, 
who, to their credit be it spoken, had generally attacked him, 
and was intended b}' him, and received by the public, as a 
faithful portraiture of English manners. As such, it merits 
special observation and praise. In the first act 3'ou find a 
Countess and an Ambassadress, whose conversation relates 
purely to the great actor. All the ladies in London are in love 
with him, especially the two present. As for the Ambassa- 
dress, she prefers him to her husband (a matter of course in 
all French pla^-s), and to a more seducing person still — no 
less a person than the Prince of Wales ! who presently waits 
on the ladies, and joins in their conversation concerning Kean. 
"This man," says his Ro3^al Highness, "is the very pink of 
fashion. Brummell is nobody when compared to him ; and I 
myself only an insignificant private gentleman. He has a repu- 
tation among ladies, for which I sigh in vain ; and spends an 
income twice as great as mine." This admirable historic touch 
at once paints the actor and the Prince ; the estimation in which 
the one was held, and the modest economy for which the other 
was so notorious. 

Then we have Kean, at a place called the Trou de Charbon^ 
the " Coal Hole," where, to the edification of the public, he 
engages in a fisty combat with a notorious boxer. This scene 
was received by the audience with loud exclamations of delight, 
and commented on, by the journals, as a faultless picture of 
English manners. " The Coal Hole " being on the banks of the 

k Thames, a nobleman — Lord Melbourn ! — has chosen the tavern 
as a rendezvous for a gang of pirates, who are to have their 
ship in waiting, in order to carry ofl^ a young lady with whom 
his lordship is enamored. It need not be said that Kean arrives 



268 ^^HE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

at the nick of time, saves the iunoeent Meess Anna^ and exposes 
the infamy of the Peer. A violent tirade against noblemen 
ensues, and Lord Melbourn slinks away, disappointed, to medi- 
tate revenge. Kean's triumphs continue through all the acts : 
the Ambassadress falls madly in love with him ; the Prince 
becomes furious at his ill success, and the Ambassador dread- 
full}^ jealous. The}^ pursue Kean to his dressing-room at the 
theatre ; where, unluckily, the Ambassadress herself has taken 
refuge. Dreadful quarrels ensue ; the tragedian grows suddenly 
mad upon the stage, and so cruelly insults the Prince of Wales 
that his Royal Highness determines to send Imn to Botany Bay. 
His sentence, however, is commuted to banishment to New 
York ; whither, of course, Miss Anna accompanies him ; re- 
warding him, previously, with her hand and twenty thousand 
a year ! 

This wonderful performance was gravely received and 
admired by the people of Paris : the piece was considered to 
be decidedl}^ moral, because the popular candidate was made 
to triumph throughout, and to triumph in the most virtuous 
manner ; for, according to the French code of morals, success 
among women is, at once, the proof and the reward of virtue. 

The sacred personage introduced in Dumas's play behind a 
cloud, figures bodily in the piece of the Massacre of the Innocents, 
represented at Paris last year. She appears under a different 
name, but the costume is exactly that of Carlo Dolce's Ma- 
donna ; and an ingenious fable is arranged, the interest of 
which hangs upon the grand Massacre of the Innocents, per- 
petrated in the fifth act. One of the chief characters is Jean le 
Precurseur^ who threatens woe to Plerod and his race, and is 
beheaded by orders of that sovereign. 

In the Festin de Balthazar, we are similarly introduced to 
Daniel, and the first scene is laid b}^ the waters of Babylon, 
where a certain number of captive Jews are seated in mel- 
ancholy postures ; a Babyloninan officer enters, exclaiming, 
^'Chantez nous quelques chansons de Jerusalem," and the 
request is refused in the language of the Psalm. Belshazzar's 
Feast is given in a grand tableau, after Martin's picture. That 
painter, in like manner, furnished scenes for the Deluge. Vast 
numbers of schoolboys and children are brought to see these 
pieces ; the lower classes delight in them. The famous Juif 
Errant, at the theatre of the Porte St. Martin, was the first of 
the kind, and its prodigious success, no doubt, occasioned 
the number of imitations which the other theatres have pro- 
duced. 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND I^IELODRAMAS. 269 

The taste of such exhibitions, of course, every English per- 
son will question ; but we must remember the manners of the 
people among whom they are popular ; and, if I ma}' be allowed 
to hazard such an opinion, there is in ever}^ one of these Boule- 
vard mysteries, a kind of rude moral. The Boulevard writers 
don't pretend to " tabernacles" and divine gifts, like Madame 
Sand and Dumas before mentioned. If they take a story from 
the sacred books, thej^ garble it without mercy, and take sad 
liberties with the text ; but they do not deal in descriptions of 
the agreeabl}- wicked, or ask pit}' and admiration for tender- 
hearted criminals and philanthropic murderers, as their betters 
do. Vice is vice on the Boulevard ; and it is fine to hear the 
audience, as a tyrant king roars out cruel sentences of death, 
or a bereaved mother pleads for the life of her child, making 
their remarks on the circumstances of the scene. "Ah, le 
gredin ! " growls an indignant countr3^man. " Quel monstre ! " 
says a grisette, in a furj^ You see very fat old men crjing like 
babies, and, like babies, sucking enormous sticks of barley-sugar. 
Actors and audience enter warmly into tlie illusion of the piece ; 
and so especiallj^ are the former affected, that at Franconi's, where 
the battles of the Empire are represented, there is as regular gra- 
dation in the ranks of the mimic army as in the real imperial 
legions. After a man has served, with credit, for a certain 
number of years in the line, he is promoted to be an officer — 
an acting officer. If he conducts himself well, he may rise to 
be a Colonel or a General of Division ; if ill, he is degraded 
to the ranks again ; or, worst degradation of all, drafted into a 
regiment of Cossacks or Austrians. Cossacks is the lowest 
depth, however ; na}^ it is said that the men who perform these 
Cossack parts receive higher wages than the mimic grenadiers 
and old guard. They will not consent to be beaten ever}- night, 
even in pla}' ; to be pursued in hundreds, b}' a handful of 
French ; to fight against their beloved Emperor. Surelj' there 
is fine hearty virtue in this, and pleasant child-like simplicit}'. 

So that while the drama of Victor Hugo, Dumas, and the 
enhghtened classes, is profoundly immoral and absurd, the 
drama of the common people is absurd, if you will, but good 
and right-hearted. I have made notes of one or two of these 
pieces, which all have good feeling and kindness in them, and 
which turn, as the reader will see, upon one or two favorite 
points of popular morality. A drama that obtained a vast 
success at the Porte Saint Martin was "La Duchesse de la 
Vauballiere." The Duchess is the daughter of a poor farmer, 
who was carried off in the first place, and then married by M. 



270 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

le Due de la Vauballiere, a terrible roue, the farmer's landlord, 
and the intimate friend of Philippe d'Orleans, the Regent of 
France. 

Now the Duke, in running away with the lad}^ intended to 
dispense altogether with ceremony, and make of Julie any- 
thing but his wife ; but Georges, her father, and one Morisseau, 
a notary, discovered him in his dastardly act, and pursued him 
to the very feet of the Regent, who compelled the pair to marry 
and make it up. 

Julie complies ; but though she becomes a Duchess, her 
heart remains faithful to her old flame, Adrian, the doctor ; and 
she declares that, beyond the ceremony, no sort of intimacy 
shall take place between her husband and herself. 

Then the Duke begins to treat her in the most ungentieman- 
like manner : he abuses her in every possible wa3' ; he intro- 
duces improper characters into her house ; and, finally, becomes 
so disgusted with her, that he determines to make away with 
her altogether. 

For this purpose, he scud's forth into the highways and seizes 
a doctor, bidding him, on pain of death, to write a poisonous 
prescription for Madame la Duchesse. She swallows the potion ; 
and O horror ! the doctor turns out to be Dr. Adrian ; whose 
woe may be imagined, upon finding that he has been thus com- 
mitting murder on his true love ! 

Let not the reader, however, be alarmed as to the fate of the 
heroine ; no heroine of a tragedy ever yet died in the third act ; 
and, accordingly^, the Duchess gets up perfectly well again in 
the fourth, through the instrumentality of Morisseau, the good 
lawj'er. 

And now it is that vice begins to be really punished. The 
Duke, who, after killing his wife, thinks it necessary to retreat, 
and take refuge in Spain, is tracked to the borders of that 
country by the virtuous notary, and there receives such a lesson 
as he will never forget to his dying day. 

Morisseau, in the first instance, produces a deed (signed by 
his Holiness the Pope), which annuls the marriage of the Duke 
de la Vauballiere ; then another deed, by which it is proved 
that he was not the eldest son of old La Vauballiere, the former 
Duke ; then another deed, by which he shows that old La Vau- 
balliere (who seems to have been a disreputable old fellow ) was 
a bigamist, and that, in consequence, the present man, st3-ling 
himself Duke, is illegitimate ; and finaUy, Morisseau brings 
forward another document, which proves that the regular Duke 
is no other than Adiian, the doctor I 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 271 

Thus it is that love, law, and physic combined, triumph over 
the horrid machinations of this star-and-gartered Hbertine. 

" Hermann I'lvrogne " is another piece of the same order; 
and though not ver}^ refined, 3^et possesses considerable merit. 
As in the case of the celebrated Captain Smith of HaHfax, who 
" took to drinking ratafia, and thought of poor Miss Bailey," — 
a woman and the bottle have been the cause of Hermann's ruin. 
Deserted by his mistress, who has been seduced from him by a 
base Italian Count, Hermann, a German artist, gives himself 
entirety up to hquor and revenge : but when he finds that force, 
and not infidelity, have been the cause of his mistress's ruin, 
the reader can fancy the indignant ferocity with which he pursues 
the infame ravissew\ A scene, which is really full of spirit, and 
excellently well acted, here ensues ! Hermann proposes to the 
Count, on the eve of their duel, that the survivor should bind 
himself to espouse the unhapp}^ Marie ; but the Count declares 
himself to be already married, and the student, finding a duel 
impossible (for his object was to restore, at all events, the 
honor of Marie) , now only thinks of his revenge, and murders 
the Count. Present^, two parties of men enter Hermann's 
apartment : one is a compan}' of students, who bring him the 
news that he has obtained the prize of painting ; the other 
the policemen, who carry him to prison, to suflfer the penalty of 
murder. 

I could mention manj^ more plaj-s in which the popular 
morality is similiarty expressed. The seducer, or rascal of the 
piece, is alwa3'S an aristocrat, — a wicked count, or licentious 
marquis, who is brought to condign punishment just before the 
fall of the curtain. And too good reason have the French 
people had to la}^ such crimes to the charge of the aristocrac}', 
who are expiating now, on the stage, the wrongs which they 
did a hundred years since. The aristocrac}^ is dead now ; but 
the theatre lives upon traditions : and don't let us be too scorn- 
ful at such simple legends as are handed down by the people 
from race to race. Vulgar prejudice against the great it ma}- 
be ; but prejudice against the great is only a rude expression 
of sympathy with the poor ; long, therefore, vnay fat epiciers 
blubber over mimic woes, and honest iwoUtaires shake their 
fists, shouting — " Gredin, scelerat, monstre de marquis ! " and 
such republican cries. 

Remark, too, another development of this same popular feel- 
ing of dislike against men in power. What a number of plan's 
and legends have we (the writer has submitted to the public, in 
the preceding pages, a couple of specimens ; one of French, and 



272 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

the other of Polish origin,) in which that great and powerful 
aristocrat, the Devil, is made to be miserablj^ tricked, humili- 
ated, and disappointed? A pla^^ of this class, which, in the 
midst of all its absurdities and claptraps, had much of good in 
it, was called " Le Maudit des Mers." Le Maudit is a Dutch 
captain, who, in the midst of a storm, while his crew were on 
their knees at pra3'ers, blasphemed and drank punch ; but what 
was his astonishment at beholding an archangel with a sword 
all covered with flaming resin, who told him that as he, in this 
hour of danger, was too daring, or too wicked, to utter a pra3'er, 
he never should cease roaming the seas until he could find some 
being who would pray to heaven for him ! 

Once only, in a hundred years, was the skipper allowed to 
land for this purpose ; and this piece runs through four cen- 
turies, in as many acts, describing the agonies and unavailing 
attempts of the miserable Dutchman. Willing to go any lengths 
in order to obtain his prayer, he, in the second act, betrays a 
Virgin of the Sun to a follower of Pizarro : and, in the third, 
assassinates the heroic William of Nassau ; but ever before the 
dropping of the curtain, the angel and sword make their appear- 
ance : — " Treachery," says the spirit, " cannot lessen thy pun- 
ishment ; — crime will not obtain th}' release ! — Ala mer ! a la 
mer ! " and the poor devil returns to the ocean, to be lonely, and 
tempest-tossed, and sea-sick for a hundred 3'ears more. 

But his woes are destined to end with the fourth act. Hav- 
ing landed in America, where the peasants on the sea-shore, all 
dressed in Italian costumes, are celebrating, in a quadrille, the 
victories of Washington, he is there lucky enough to find a 
young girl to pray for him. Then the curse is removed, the 
punishment is over, and a celestial vessel, with angels on the 
decks and ' ' sweet little cherubs " fluttering about the shrouds 
and the poop, appear to receive him. 

This piece was acted at Franconi's, where, for once, an 
angel-ship was introduced in place of the usual horseman- 
ship. 

One must not forget to mention here, how the English nation 
is satirized by our neighbors ; who have some droll traditions 
regarding us. In one of the little Christmas pieces produced 
at the Palais Royal (satires upon the follies of the past twelve 
months, on which all the small theatres exhaust their wit), the 
celebrated flight of Messrs. Green and Monck Mason was paro- 
died, and created a good deal of laughter at the expense of 
John Bull. Two English noblemen, Milor Cricri and Milor 
Hanneton, appear as descending from a balloon, and one of them 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 273 

communicates to the public the philosophic observations which 
were made in the course of his aerial tour. 

"On lea^dng Vauxhall," saj-s his lordship, "we drank a 
bottle of Madeira, as a health to the friends from whom we 
parted, and crunched a few biscuits to support nature during 
the hours before lunch. In two hours we arrived at Canterburj^ 
enveloped in clouds : lunch, bottled porter : at Dover, carried 
I several miles in a tide of air, bitter cold, cherry-brand}^ ; crossed 
over the Channel safely, and thought with pity of the poor 
l)eople who were sickening in the steamboats below : more 
l)ottied porter : over Calais, dinner, roast-beef of Old England ; 
near Dunkirk, — night falling, lunar rainbow, brand3'-and-water ; 
night confoundedly thick ; supper, nightcap of rum-punch, and 
HO to bed. The sun broke beautifull}' through the morning 
mist, as we boiled the kettle and took our breakfast over 
Cologne. In a few more hours we concluded this memorable 
voyage, and landed safely at Weilburg, in good time for 
dinner." 

The joke here is smart enough ; but our honest neighbors 
make many better, when the}^ are quite unconscious of the fun. 
Let us leave pla3^s, for a moment, for poetrj^, and take an in- 
stance of French criticism, concerning England, from the works 
of a famous French exquisite and man of letters. The hero of 
the poem addresses his mistress — 

Londres, tu le sais trop, en fait de capitale, 
Est-ce que fit le del de plus f roid et plus pale, 
C'est la ville du gaz, dcs marins, du brouillard ; 
On s'y couche a minuit, et Ton s'y leve tard ; 
Ses raouts tant vantes ne sont qu'une boxade, 
Sur ses grands quais jamais echelle ou serenade, 
Mais de volumineux bourgeois pris de porter 
Qui passent sans lever le front a Westminster ; 
Et n'etait sa foret de mats per9ant la brume, 
Sa tour dont a minuit le vieil deil s'allume, 
Et tes deux j'eux, Zerline, illumines bien plus, 
Je dirais que, ma foi, des romans que j'ai lus, 
II n'en est pas un seul, plus lourd, plus lethargique 
Que cette nation qu'on norarae Britannique ! 

The writer of the above lines (which let any man who can 
translate) is Monsieur Roger de Beauvoir, a gentleman who 
actually lived many months in England, as an attache to the 
embassy of M. de PoHgnac. He places the heroine of his tale 
in a petit reduit pres le Strand, " with a green and fresh jalousie, 
and a large blind, let down all day ; you fancied you were 
entering a bath of Asia, as soon as you had passed the per- 

18 



274 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

fumed threshold of this charming retreat ! " He next place* 
her — 

Dans un square ecarte, morne et couverte de givre, 
Oil se cache un hotel, aux vieux lions de cuivre ; 

and the hero of the tale, a 3'oung French poet, who is in London, 
is truty unhappy in that village. 

Arthur desseche et meurt. Dans la ville de Sterne, 
Rien qu'en voyant le peuple il a le mal de raer • 
II n'aime ni le Pare, gai comme une citerne, 
Ni le tir au pigeon, ni le soda-water* 

Liston ne le fait plus sourciller ! II rumine 
Sur les trottoirs du Strand, droit comme un ^chiquier, 
Centre le peuple anglais, les negres, la vermine, 
Et les mille cokneys du peuple boutiquier, 

Centre tous les bas-bleus, centre les patissieres, 
Les parieurs d'Epsom, le gin, le parlement, 
La quaterly, le roi, la pluie et les libraires, 
Dent il ne touche plus, helas ! un sou d'argent ! 

Et chaque gentleman lui dit : L'heureux poete ! 

" L'heureux poete" indeed! I question if a poet in this 
wide world is so happy as M. de Beauvoir, or has made such 
wonderful discoveries. "The bath of Asia, with green jalou- 
sies," in which the lady dwells; "the old hotel, with copper 
lions, in a lonely square;" — were ever such things heard of, 
or imagined, but by a Frenchman? The sailors, the negroes, 
the vermin, whom he meets in the street, — how great and 
happy are all these discoveries ! Liston no longer makes the 
happy poet frown ; and " gin," " cokneys," and the " quaterly " 
have not the least effect upon him ! And this gentleman has 
lived many months amongst us ; admires Williams Shalcspear, 
the "grave et vieux prophete," as he calls him, and never, 
for an instant, doubts that his description contains anything 
absurd ! 

I don't know whether the great Dumas has passed any time 
in England ; but his plays show a similar intimate knowledge 
of our habits. Thus in Kean^ the stage-manager is made to 
come forward and address the pit, with a speech beginning, 
" My Lords and Gentlemen ; " and a company of Englishwomen 
are introduced (at the memorable " Coal Hole"), and they all 
wear pinafores ; as if the British female were in the invariable 
* The italics are the author's own. 



FRENCH DRAMAS AND MELODRAMAS. 275 

habit of wearing tliis outer garment, or slobbering her gown 
without it. There was another celebrated piece, enacted some 
years since, upon the subject of Queen Caroline, where our late 
adored sovereign, George, was made to play a most despicable 
part ; and where Signor Bergami fought a duel with Lord Lon- 
donderry. In the last act of this pla^', the House of Lords was 
represented, and Sir Brougham made an eloquent speech in the 
Queen's favor. Presently the shouts of the mob were heard« 
without ; from shouting the}' proceeded to pelting ; and paste- 
board-brickbats and cabbages came flying among the repre- 
sentatives of our hereditary legislature. At this unpleasant 
juncture. Sir Hardinge^ the Secretar3'-at- War, rises and calls in 
the militar}' ; the act ends in a general row, and the ignominious 
fall of Lord Liverpool, laid low b}^ a brickbat from the mob ! 

The description of these scenes is, of course, quite incapable 
of conveying any, notion of their general eifect. You must 
have the solemnit}' of the actors, as the}' Meess and Milor one 
another, and the perfect gravity and good faith with which the 
audience listen to them. Our stage Frenchman is the old 
Marquis, with sword, and pigtail, and spangled court coat. 
The Englishman of the French theatre has, invariably, a red 
wig, and almost always leather gaiters, and a long white upper 
Benjamin : he remains as he was represented in the old carica- 
tures after the peace, when Vernet designed him. 

And to conclude this catalogue of blunders : in the famous 
piece of the " Naufrage de la Meduse," the first act is laid on 
board an English ship-of-war, all the officers of which appeared 
in hght blue or green coats (the lamp-light prevented our dis- 
tinguishing the color accurately) , and top-boots ! 

Let us not attempt to deaden the force of this tremendous 
blow by any more remarks. The force of blundering can go na 
further. Would a Chinese playwright or painter have stranger 
notions about the barbarians than our neighbors, who are sepa- 
rated from us but by two hours of salt water ? 



MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES. 



The palace of Versailles has been turned into a bricabrac 
shop of late years, and its time-honored walls have been cov- 
ered with many thousand 3'ards of the worst pictures that eye 
ever looked on. I don't know how man}^ leagues of battles 
and sieges the unhapp}^ visitor is now obhged to march tlirough, 
amidst a crowd of chattering Paris cockneys, who are nevep' 
tired of looking at the glories of the Grenadier Frangais ; to 
the chronicling of whose deeds this old palace of the old kings is 
now altogether devoted. A whizzing, screaming steam-engine 
rushes hither from Paris, bringing shoals of hadauds in its wake. 
The old coucous are all gone, and their place knows them no 
longer. Smooth asphaltum terraces, tawdry lamps, and great 
hideous Egj^ptian obeUsks, have frightened them awa3^ from 
the pleasant station the}^ used to occupy under the trees of the 
Champs Etysees ; and though the old coucous were just the 
most uncomfortable vehicles that human ingenuit}^ ever con- 
structed, one can't help looking back to the daj^s of their exist- 
ence with a tender regret ; for there was pleasure then in the little 
trip of three leagues : and who ever had pleasure in a railway 
journey? Does any reader of this venture to sa}^ that, on such 
a V03"age, he ever dared to be pleasant? Do the most hardened 
stokers joke with one anothei:? I don't believe it. Look into 
every single car of the train, and 3'ou will see that every single 
face is solemn. They take their seats gravel}^ and are silent, 
for the most part, during the journe}' ; the}^ dare not look out 
of window, for fear of being blinded b}^ the smoke that comes 
whizzing b}", or of losing their heads in one of the windows of 
the down train ; they ride for miles in utter damp and darkness : 
through awful pipes of brick, that have been run pitilessly 



MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES. 277 

through the bowels of gentle mother earth, the cast-iron 
Frankenstein of an engine gallops on, puffing and screaming. 
Does any man pretend to saj that he enjoys the journey ? — he 
might as well sa}' that he enjoyed having his hair cut ; he bears 
it, but that is all : he will not allow the world to laugh at him, 
for any exhibition of slavish fear ; and pretends, therefore, to 
be at his ease ; but he is afraid : nay, ought to be, under the 
circumstances. I am sure Hannibal or Napoleon would, were 
they locked suddenly into a car ; there kept close prisoners for 
a certain number of hours, and whirled along at this dizzy pace. 
You can't stop, if you would : — 3'ou may die, but you can't 
stop ; the engine may explode upon the road, and up you go 
along with it ; or, may be a bolter and take a fancy to go down 
a hill, or into a river : all this 3'ou must bear, for the privilege 
of travelling twent}' miles an hour. 

This little journey, then, from Paris to Versailles, that 
used to be so merry of old, has lost its pleasures since the 
disappearance of the coucous ; and I would as lief have for 
companions the statues that lately took a coach from the bridge 
opposite the Chamber of Deputies, and stepped out in the court 
of Versailles, as the most part of the people who now travel 
on the railroad. The stone figures are not a whit more cold 
and silent than these persons, who used to be, in the old cow- 
cous^ so talkative and merr3^ The prattling grisette and her 
swain from the Ecole de Droit ; the huge Alsacian carabineer, 
grimly smiling under his sand}^ moustaches and glittering brass 
helmet ; the jolly nurse, in red calico, who had been to Paris to 
show mamma her darling Lolo, or Auguste ; — what merry com- 
panions used one to find squeezed into the crazy old vehicles 
that formerly performed the journey ! But the age of horse- 
flesh is gone — that of engineers, economists, and calculators 
has succeeded ; and the pleasure of coucoudom is extinguished 
for ever. Why not mourn over it, as Mr. Burke did over his 
r cheap defence of nations and unbought grace of life ; that age 
\ of chivahy, which he lamented, apropos of a trip to Versailles, 
some half a century back? 

Without stopping to discuss (as might be done, in rather a 
; neat and successful manner) whether the age of chivalry was 
X cheap or dear, and whether, in the time of the unbought grace 
\ of life, there was not more briber}-, robber}-, villain}-, tyrann}^, 
< and corruption, than exists even in our own happy days, — let 
{j- us make a few moral and historical remarks upon the town of 

I Versailles ; where, between raikoad and coucou, we are surely 

II arrived by this time. 



278 THE PAKIS SKETCH BOOK. 

The town is, certainlj-, the most moral of towns. You pass 
from the raih*oad station through a long, lonely suburb, with 
dusty rows of stunted trees on either side, and some few mis- 
erable beggars, idle bo3's, and ragged old women under them. 
Behind the trees are gaunt, mouldy houses ; palaces once, 
where (in the da3's of the unbought grace of life) the cheap 
defence of nations gambled, ogled, swhidled, intrigued ; whence^ 
liigh-born duchesses used to issue, in old times, to act as cham- 
bermaids to lovel}' Du Barri ; and mighty princes rolled aw'a}', 
in gilt caroches, hot for the honor of lighting his Majest}^ to 
bed, or of presenting his stockings w^hen he rose, or of hold- 
ing his napkin when he dined. Tailors, chandlers, tinmen, 
wretched hucksters, and greengrocers, are now established in 
the mansions of the old peers ; small children are 3'elhng at 
the doors, w'ith mouths besmeared with bread and treacle ; 
damp rags are hanging out of every one of the window^s, steam- 
ing in the sun ; oyster-shells, cabbage-stalks, broken crock er}', 
old papers, lie basking in the same cheerful light. A solitary 
water-cart goes jingling dow^n the wdde pavement, and spirts a 
feeble refreshment over the dusty, thirst}^ stones. 

After pacing for some time through such dismal streets, we 
dehoucher on the grande place; and before us lies the palace 
dedicated to all the glories of France. In the midst of the great 
lonety plain this famous residence of King Louis looks low and 
mean. — Honored pile ! Time was when tall musketeers and 
gilded body-guards allowed none to pass the gate. Fift}^ 3'eai's 
ago, ten thousand drunken wojnen from Paris broke through 
the charm ; and now a tattered commissioner will conduct 3^ou 
through it for a penn3^, and lead you up to the sacred entrance 
of the palace. 

We wall not examine all the glories of France, as here the3^ 
are portrayed in pictures and marble : catalogues are written 
about these miles of canvas, representing all the revolutionar3' 
battles, from Valmy to Waterloo, — all the triumphs of Louis 
XIV. — all the mistresses of his successor — and all the great 
men who have flourished since the French empire began. Mili- 
tar3' heroes are most of these — fierce constables in shining steel, 
marshals in voluminous wigs, and brave grenadiers in bearskin 
caps ; some dozens of whom gained crowns, principalities, duke- 
doms ; some hundreds, plunder and epaulets ; some millions, 
death in African sands, or in icy Russian plains, under the 
guidance, and for the good, of that arch-hero, Napoleon. By 
far the greater part of " all the glories " of France (as of most 
other countries) is made up of these mihtary men : and a fine 




"UKUKlvEN WOMEN FKOM PAKIS." 



MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES. 279 

satire it is on the cowardice of mankind, that they pa}' such an 
extraordinaiy homage to the virtue called courage ; filling their 
histor3-books with tales about it, and nothing but it. 

Let them disguise the place, however, as they will, and plas- 
ter the walls with bad pictures as they please, it will be hard to 
think of an}' family but one, as one traverses this vast gloomy 
edifice. It has not been humbled to the ground, as a certain 
palace of Babel was of yore ; but it is a monument of fallen pride, 
not less awful, and would afford matter for a whole library of 
sermons. The cheap defence of nations expended a thousand 
millions in the erection of this magnificent dweUing-place. 
Armies were employed, in the intervals of their warlike labors, 
to level hills, or pile them up ; to turn rivers, and to build aque- 
ducts, and transplant woods, and construct smooth terraces, and 
long canals. A vast garden grew up in a wilderness, and a stu- 
pendous palace in the garden, and a stately city round the pal- 
ace : the city was peopled with parasites, who daily came to do 
worship before the creator of these wonders — the Great King. 
''Dieu seul est grand," said courtly Massillon ; but next to 
him, as the prelate thought, was certainly Louis, his vicegerent 
here upon earth — God's lieutenant-governor of the world, — 
before whom courtiers used to fall on their knees, and shade 
their eyes, as if the light of his countenance, like the sun, which 
shone supreme in heaven, the type of him, was too dazzling to 
bear. 

Did ever the sun shine upon such a king before, in such a 
palace ? — or, rather, did such a king ever shine upon the sun ? 
When Majesty came out of his chamber, in the midst of his su- 
perhuman splendors, viz. in his cinnamon-colored coat, embroid- 
ered with diamonds ; his pyramid of a wig ; * his red-heeled 
shoes, that lifted him four inches from the ground, "that he 
scarcely seemed to touch ; " when he came out, blazing upon the 
dukes and duchesses that waited his rising, — what could the 
latter do, but cover their eyes, and wink, and tremble? And 
did he not himself believe, as he stood there, on his high heels, 
under his ambrosial periwig, that there was something in him 
more than man — something above Fate ? 

This, doubtless, was he fain to believe ; and if, on very fine 
days, from his terrace before his gloomy palace of Saint Ger- 
mains, he could catch a glimpse, in the distance, of a certain 
white spire of St. Denis, where his race lay buried, he would say 
to his courtiers, with a sublime condescension, "Gentlemen, 

* It is fine to think that, in the days of his youth, his Majesty Louis 
XIV. used to pewder his wig with gold-dust. 



280 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

3'ou must remember that I, too, am mortal. " Surel}^ the lords 
in waiting could hardl}' think him serious, and vowed that his 
Majest3' alwaj's loved a joke. However, mortal or not, the sight 
of that sharp spire wounded his Majestj-'s e3'es ; and is said, by 
the legend, to have caused the building of the palace of Babel- 
Versailles. ^ 

In the 3'ear 1G81, then, the great king, with bag and bag- 
gage, — with guards, cooks, chamberlains, mistresses, Jesuits, 
gentlemen, lacker's, Fenelons, Molieres, Lauzuns, Bossuets, 
Villars, Viilero3's, Louvois, Colberts, — transported himself to 
his new palace : the old one being left for James of England and 
Jaquette his wife, when their time should come. And when the 
time did come, and James sought his brother's kingdom, it is on 
record that Louis hastened to receive and console him, and prom- 
ised to restore, incontinentl3^, those islands from which the ca- 
naille had turned him. Between brothers such a gift was a trifle ; 
and the courtiers said to one another reverently : * " The Lord 
said unto m3" Lord, Sit thou on m3' right hand, until I make 
thine enemies th3^ footstool." There was no blasphemv in the 
speech; on the contrary, it was gravely said, by a faithful be- 
lieving man, who thought it no shame to the latter, to compare 
his Majest3' with God Almighty. Jndeed, the books of the time 
will give one a strong idea how general was this Louis-worship. 
I have just been looking at one, which was written by an hon- 
est Jesuit and Protege of Pere la Chaise, who dedicates a book 
of medals to the august Infants of France, which does, indeed, 
go almost as far in print. He calls our famous monarch " Louis 
le Grand : — 1, I'invincible ; 2, le sage ; 3, le conquerant ; 4, la 
merveille de son siecle ; 5, la terreurde ses ennemis ; 6, I'amour 
de ses peuples ; 7, I'arbitre de la paix et de la guerre ; 8, Tad- 
miration de I'univers ; 9, et digne d'en etre le maitre : 10, le 
modele d'un heros acheve ; 11, digne de I'immortalite, et de la 
veneration de tous les siecles ! " 

A pretty Jesuit declaration, truly, and a good honest judg- 
ment upon the great king! In thirt3' 3'ears more — 1. The 
invincible had been beaten a vast number of times. 2. The sage 
was the puppet of an artful old woman, who was the puppet of 
more artful priests. 3. The conqueror had quite forgotten his 
early knack of conquering. 5. The terror of his enemies (for 4, 
the marvel of his age, we pretermit, it being a loose term, that 
ma3^ appl3^ to an3' person or thing) was now terrified b3" his 

* I think it is in the amusing " Memoirs of Madame de Creqni " (a for- 
gery, but a work remarkable for its learning and accuracy) that the above 
anecdote is related. 



MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES. 281 

enemies in turn. 6. The love of his people was as heartil}* de- 
tested b}' them as scarcely anj- other monarch, not even his great- 
grandson, has been, before or since. 7. The arbiter of peace and 
war was fain to send snperb ambassadors to kick their heels in 
Dntch shopkeepers' ante-chambers. 8, is again a general term. 
9. The man fit to be master of the universe, was scarcely mas- 
ter of his own kingdom. 10. The finished hero was all but 
finished, in a ver^^ commonplace and vulgar vvay. And 11. 
The man worth}^ of immortalitj' was just at the point of death, 
without a friend to goothe or deplore him ; only withered old 
Maintenon to utter prayers at his bedside, and croaking Jesuits 
to prepare him,* with heaven knows what wretched tricks and 
mummeries, for his appearance in that Great Republic that lies 
on the other side of the grave. In the course of his fourscore 
splendid miserable 3'ears, he never had but one friend, and he 
ruined and left her. Poor La Valliere, what a sad tale is 3-ours ! 
'' Look at this Galerie des Glaces," cries Monsieur Vatout, 
staggering with surprise at the appearance of the room, two 
hundred and fort3^-two feet long, and forty high. •' Here it was 
that Louis clisplaj'ed all the grandeur of royalty ; and such was 
the splendor of his court, and the luxury of the times, that this 
immense room could hardl^^ contain the crowd of courtiers that 
pressed aroun 1 the monarch." Wonderful ! wonderful ! Eight 
thousand four hundred and sixt}' square feet of courtiers ! Give 
a square yard to each, and 3'ou have a matter of three thousand 
of them. Think of three thousand courtiers per das'^ and all 
the chopping and changing of them for near fort3^ 3'ears : some 
of them dying, some getting their wishes, and retiring to their 
provinces to enjoy their plunder ; some disgraced, and going 
home to pine away out of the light of the sun ; t new ones per- 
petually arriving, — pushing, squeezing, for their place, in the 
crowded Galerie des Glaces. A quarter of a million of noble 
countenances, at the ver3' least, nuist those glasses have re- 
flected. Rouge, diamonds, ribbons, patches, upon the faces of 
smiling ladies : towering periwigs, sleek shaven crowns, tufted 
moustaches, scars, and grizzled whiskers, worn b3' ministers, 
priests, dandies, and grim old commanders. — So man3' faces, 
O ye gods ! and ever3' one of them lies ! So many tongues, 
vowing devotion and respectful love to the great king in his 
six-inch wig ; and onlv' poor La Valliere's amongst them all 

* They made a Jesuit of him on his cleath-bed. 

t Saint Simon's a,ccount of Lauzun, in disgrace, is admirably facetious 
and pathetic ; Lauzuii's regrets are as monstrous as those of Raleigh when 
deprived of the sight of his adorable Queen and Mistress, Elizabetii. 



282 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

which had a word of truth for the dull ears of Louis of 
Bourbon. 

" QjLiand j'aurai de la peine aux Carmelites," says unhappy 
Louise, about to retire from these magnificent courtiers and 
their grand Galerie des Glaces, " je me souviendrai de ce que 
ces gens la m'ont fait souffrir ! " — A troop of Bossuets inveigh- 
ing against the vanities of courts could not preach such an 
affecting sermon. What years of anguish and wrong had the 
poor thing suffered, before these sad words came from her 
gentle lips ! How these courtiers have bowed and flattered, 
kissed the ground on which she trod, fought to have the honor 
of riding by her carriage, written sonnets, and called her god- 
dess ; who, in the days of her prosperity, was kind and benefi- 
cent, gentle and compassionate to all ; then (on a certain day, 
when it is v/hispered that his Majesty hath cast the e3'es of his 
gracious aff'ection upon another) behold three thousand cour- 
tiers are at the feet of the new divinity. — " O divine Athenais ! 
what blockheads have we been to worship any but 3^ou. — That 
a goddess ? — a pretty goddess forsooth ; — a witch, rather, who, 
for a while, kept .our gracious monarch blind ! Look at her : 
the woman limps as she walks ; and, by sacred Venus, her 
mouth stretches almost to her diamond ear-rings ? " * The 
same tale may be told of many more deserted mistresses ; and 
fair Athenais de Montespan was to hear it of herself one da}^ 
Meantime, while La Valliere's heart is breaking, the model of 
a finished hero is yawning ; as, on such paltry occasions, a 
finished hero should. Let her heart break : a plague upon her 
tears and repentance; what right has she to repent? Away 
with her to her convent. She goes, and the finished hero never 
sheds a tear. What a noble pitch of stoicism to have reached ! 
Our Louis was so great, that the little woes of mean people 
were beyond him : his friends died, his mistresses left him ; his 
children, one b}^ one, were cut off" before his eyes, and great 
Louis is not moved in the sHghtest degree ! As how, indeed, 
should a god be moved ? 

I have often liked to think about this strange character in 
the world, who moved in it, bearing about a full belief in his 
own infallibilit}^ ; teaching his generals the art of war, his min- 
isters the science of government, his wits taste, his courtiers 
dress ; ordering deserts to become gardens, turning villages into 
palaces at a breath ; and indeed the august figure of the man, 

* A pair of diamond ear-rings, given by the King to La Valli^re, caused 
much scandal ; and some lampoons are extant, which impugn the taste of 
Louis XIV. for loving a lady with such an enormous mouth. 




MADAME DE LA VALLIERE. 



MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES. 283 

as he towers upon his throne, cannot fail to inspire one with 
respect and awe : — how grand those flowing locks appear ; how 
awful that sceptre ; how magniticent those flowing robes ! In 
Louis, surely, if in siiiy one, the majestj^ of kinghood is repre- 
sented. 

But a king U not every inch a king, for all the poet may 
sa}^ ; and it is curious to see how much precise majesty there 
?.s in that majestic figure of Ludovicus Rex. In the Frontis- 
piece, we have endeavored to make the exact calculation. The 
idea of kingly dignity- is equally strong in the two outer figures ; 
and you see, at once, that majesty is made out of the wig, the 
high-heeled shoes, and cloak, all fleurs-de-lis bespangled. As 
for the little lean, shrivelled, paunchy old man, of five feet two, 
in a jacket and breeches, there is no majesty in him at any 
rate ; and 3-et he has just stepped out of that very suit of 
clothes. Put the wig and shoes on him, and he is six feet 
high ; — the other fripperies, and he stands before 3'ou majestic, 
imperial, and heroic ! Thus do barbers and cobblers make the 
gods that we worship : for do we not all worship him? Yes ; 
though we all know him to be stupid, heartless, short, of 
doubtful personal courage, worship and admire him we must ; 
and have set up, in our hearts, a grand image of him, endowed 
with wit, magnanimity, valor, and enormous heroical stature. 

And what magnanimous acts are attributed to him ! or, 
rather, how differently do we view the fictions of heroes and 
common men, and find that the same thing shall be a wonder- 
ful virtue in the former, which, in the latter, is onl}' an ordinary'" 
act of duty. Look at yonder window of the king's chamber ; — 
one morning a royal cane was seen whirling out of it, and 
plumped among the courtiers and guard of honor below. King 
Louis had absolutely, and with his own hand, flung his own 
cane out of the window, "because," said he, "I won't demean 
m3'self by striking a gentleman ! " O miracle of magnanimit}' ! 
Lauzun was not caned, because he besought majesty to keep 
his promise, — onlj' imprisoned for ten 3'ears in Pignerol, along 
with banished Fouquet ; — and a prett}^ story is Fouquet's too. 

Out of the window the king's august head was one day 
thrust, when old Conde w^as painfully toiling up the steps of 
the court below. "Don't hurr^^ 3'ourself, m3^ cousin," cries 
Magnanimit3' ; " one who has to cany so many laurels cannot 
walk fast." xYt which all the courtiers, lackeys, mistresses, 
chamberlains, Jesuits, and scullions, clasp their hands and 
burst into tears. Men are aff'ected by the tale to this ver3' dsty. 
For a centur3' and three-quarters, have not all the books that 



284 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

speak of Versailles, or Louis Qiiatorze, told the story? — 
" Don't hurry 3'ourself, my cousin ! " O admirable king and 
Christian ! what a pitch of condescension is here, that the 
greatest king of all the world should go for to say anything so 
kind, and reall}" tell a tottering old gentleman, worn out with 
gout, age, and wounds, not to walk too fast ! 

What a proper fund of slavishness is there in the compo- 
sition of mankind, that histories like these should be found to 
interest and awe them. Till the world's end, most likelj', this 
story will have its place in the histor^'-books ; and unborn gen- 
erations wiU read it, and tenderly be moved b3^ it. I am sure 
that Magnanimity went to bed that night, pleased and happy, 
intimatel}- convinced that he had done an action of sublime 
virtue, and had eas}^ slumbers and sweet dreams, — especially 
if he had taken a light supper, and not too A^ehemently attacked 
his en cas de nuit. 

That famous adventure, in which the en cas de nuit was 
brought into use, for the sake of one Poquelin rdias Mo- 
liere ; — how often has it been described and admired? This 
Poquelin, though king's valet-de-chambre, was by profession 
a vagrant ; and as such, looked coldl}^ on by the great lords 
of the palace, who refused to eat with him. Majesty hearing 
of this, ordered his e7i cas de mat to be placed on the table, 
and positivel}^ cut off a wing with his own knife and fork for 
Poquelin's use. O thrice happ}- Jean Baptiste ! The king has 
actually sat down with him cheek by jowl, had the liver-wing 
of a fowl, and given Moliere the gizzard ; put his imperial legs 
under the same mahogany" {sub iisdem trablbus). A man, after 
such an honor, can look for little else in this world : he has 
tasted the utmost conceivable earthlj' happiness, and has noth- 
ing to do now but to fold his arms, look up to heaven, and 
sing '' Nunc dimittis" and die. 

Do not let us abuse poor old Louis on account of this mon- 
strous pride ; but only lay it to the charge of the fools who 
believed and worshipped it. If, honest man, he believed him- 
self to be almost a god, it was only because thousands of 
people had told him so — people only half liars, too ; who did, 
in the depths of their slavish respect, admire the man almost 
as much as they said the}' did. If, when he appeared in his 
five-hundred" million coat, as he is said to have done, before 
the Siamese ambassadors, the courtiers began to shade their 
e^'es and long for parasols, as if this Bourbonic sun was too 
hot for them ; indeed, it is no wonder that he should believe 
that there was somethiiior dazzling about his person : he had 



MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES. 286 

half a million of eager testimonies to this idea. Who was to 
tell him the truth ? — Onl}' in the last 3'ears of his life did trem- 
bling courtiers dare whisper to him, after much circumlocution, 
that a certain battle had been fought at a place called Blen- 
heim, and that Eugene and Marlborough had stopped his long 
career of triumphs. 

"On n'est plus heureux a notre age," sa^'s the old man, to 
)>ne of his old generals, welcoming Tallard after his defeat; 
'ind he rewards him with honors, as if he had come from a vic- 
tory. There is, if 3'ou will, something magnanimous in this 
welcome to his conquered general, this stout protest against 
Fate. Disaster succeeds disaster ; armies after armies march 
out to meet fiery Eugene and that dogged, fatal Englishman, and 
disappear in the smoke of the enemies' cannon. Even at Ver- 
sailles 3'ou ma}' almost hear it roaring at last ; but when cour- 
tiers, who have forgotten their god, now talk of quitting this 
grand temple of his, old Louis plucks up heart and will never 
hear of surrender. All the gold and silver at Versailles he 
melts, to find bread for his armies : all the jewels on his five- 
hundred-million coat he pawns resolutely ; and, bidding Villars 
go and make the last struggle but one, promises, if his general 
is defeated, to place himself at the head of his nobles, and die 
King of France. Indeed, after a man, for sixty 3'ears, has been 
performing the part of a hero, some of the real heroic stuff must 
have entered into his composition, whether he would or not. 
>V"hen the great P^lliston was enacting the part of King George 
the Fourth, in the pla}^ of " The Coronation," at Drury Lane, 
the galleries applauded very loudl}' his suavity and majestic de- 
meanor, at which Elliston, inflamed by the popular loyalt}- (and 
by some fermented liquor in which, it is said, he was in the habit 
of indulging), burst into tears, and spreading out his arms, ex- 
claimed : '' Bless ye, bless ye, m}' people ! " Don't let us laugh 
at his Ellistonian majest}-, nor at the people who clapped hands 
and 3'elled "bravo!" in praise of him. The tipsy old man- 
ager did reall}' feel that he was a hero at that moment ; and the 
people, wild with delight and attachment for a magnificent coat 
and breeches, surely were uttering the true sentiments of loy- 
alty : which consists in reverencing these and other articles of 
costume. In this fifth act, then, of his long royal drama, old 
Louis performed his part excellently ; and when the curtain 
drops upon him, he lies, dressed majesticall3', in a becoming 
kingly attitude, as a king should. 

The king his successor has not left, at Versailles, half so 
much occasion for moralizing; perhaps the neighboring Pare 



286 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

aux Cerfs would afford better illustrations of his reign. The' 
life of his great grandsire, the Grand Llama of France, seems to 
have frightened Louis the well-beloved ; who understood that 
loneliness is one of the necessar}' conditions of divinity, and 
being of a jovial, companionable turn, aspired not bej'oncl 
manhood. Only in the matter of ladies did he surpass his 
predecessor, as Solomon did David. War he eschewed, as his 
grandfather bade him ; and his simple taste found little in 
this world to enjoy bej'ond the mulling of chocolate and the 
frying of pancakes. Look, here is the room called Labora- 
toire du Roi, where, with his own hands, he made his mistress's 
breakfast: — here is the little door through which, from her 
apartments in the upper story, the chaste Du Barri came 
stealing down to the arms of the wear}^ feeble, gloom}^ old 
man. But of women he was tired long since, and even pan- 
cake-frying had palled upon him. What had he to do, after 
forty years of reign; — after having exhausted everything? 
Every pleasure that Dubois could invent for his hot youth, or 
cunning Lebel could minister to his old age, was flat and stale ; 
used up to the very dregs : every shilling in the national purse 
had been squeezed out, by Pompadour and Du Barri and such 
brilliant ministers of state. He had found out the vanitj^ of 
pleasure, as his ancestor had discovered the vanity of glory : 
indeed it was high time that he should die. And die he did ; 
and round his tomb, as round that of his grandfather before 
him, the starving people sang a dreadful chorus of curses, 
which were the only epitaphs for good or for evil that were 
raised to his memory. 

As for the courtiers — the knights and nobles, the unbought 
grace of life — they, of course, forgot him in one minute after 
his death, as the way is. When the king dies, the officer ap- 
pointed opens his chamber window, and calling out into the 
court below, Le Roi est mort^ breaks his cane, takes another 
and waves it, exclaiming, Vive le Roi! Straightway all the 
lo3'al nobles begin yelling Vive le Roi! and the officer goes 
round solemnly and sets yonder great clock in the Cour de 
Marbre to the hour of the king's death. This old Louis had 
solem.nly ordained ; but the Versailles clock was onlj^ set 
twice : there was no shouting of Vive le Roi when the suc- 
cessor of Louis XV. mounted to heaven to join his sainted 
family. 

Strange stories of the deaths of kings have alwa3"S been very 
recreating and profitable to us : what a fine one is that of the 
death of Louis XV., as Madame Campan tells it. One night 



MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES. 287 

the gracious monarch came back ill from Trianon ; the disease 
turned out to be the small-pox ; so violent that ten people of 
those who had to enter his chamber caught the infection and 
died. The whole court flies from him ; only poor old fat Mes- 
dames the King's daughters persist in remaining at his bedside, 
and praying for his soul's welfare. 

On the 10th May, 1774, the whole court had assembled at 
the chateau ; the QEil de Boeuf was full. The Dauphin had 
determined to depart as soon as the king had breathed his last. 
And it was agreed by the people of the stables, with those who 
watched in the king's room, that a lighted candle should be 
placed in a window, and should be extinguished as soon as he 
had ceased to live. The candle was put out. At that signal, 
guards, pages, and squires mounted on horseback, and everj"- 
thing was made ready for departure. The Dauphin was with 
the Dauphiness, waiting together for the news of the king's 
demise. Aii immense noise^ as if of thunder, was heard in the 
next room; it was the crowd of courtiers, who were deserting 
the dead king's apartment, in order to pay their court to the 
new power of Louis XVL Madame de Noailles entered, and 
was the first to salute the queen by her title of Queen of France, 
and begged their Majesties to quit their apartments, to receive 
the princes and great lords of the court desirous to pay their 
homage to the new sovereigns. Leaning on her husband's arm, 
a handkerchief to her ej'es, in the most touching attitude, Marie 
Antoinette received these first visits. On quitting the chamber 
where the dead king la}-, the Due de Villequier bade M. Ander- 
ville, first surgeon of the king, to open and embalm the bod}^ : 
it would have been certain death to the surgeon. " I amread^-, 
sir," said he ; " but whilst I am operating, you must hold the 
head of the corpse : 3'our charge demands it." The Duke went 
away without a word, and the body v>as neither opened nor 
embalmed. A few humble domestics and poor workmen 
watched by the remains, and performed the last offices to their 
master. The surgeons ordered spirits of wine to be poured 
into the coffin. 

They huddled the king's body into a post-chaise ; and in this 
deplorable equipage, with an escort of about forty men, Louis 
the well-beloved was carried, in the dead of night, from Ver- 
sailles to St. Denis, and then thrown into the tomb of the kings 
of France ! 

If any man is curious, and can get permission, he may 
mount to the roof of the palace, and see where Louis XVI. 
used royally to amuse himself, by gazing upon the doings of all 



288 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

the townspeople below with a telescope. Behold that balcony, 
where, one morning, he, his queen, and the little Dauphin stood, 
with Cromwell Grandison Lafa3'ette b}^ their side, who kissed 
her Majesty's hand, and protected her ; and then, lovingly sur* 
rounded bj' his people, the king got into a coach and came to 
Paris : nor did his Majest}^ ride much in coaches after that. 

There is a portrait of the king, in the upper galleries, 
clothed in red and gold, riding a fat horse, brandishing a 
sword, on which the word "Justice" is inscribed, and looking 
remarkably stupid and uncomfortable. You see that the horse 
will throw him at the very first fling ; and as for the sword, it 
never was made for such hands as his, which were good at 
holding a corkscrew or a carving-knife, but not clever at the 
management of weapons of war. Let those pit}^ him who will : 
call him saint and martyr if you please ; but a martyr to what 
principle was he ? Did he frankh^ support either party in his 
kingdom, or cheat and tamper with both? He might have 
escaped ; but he must have his supper : and so his famil}^ was 
butchered and his kingdom lost, and he had his bottle of Bur- 
gundy in comfort at Varennes. A single charge upon the fatal 
10th of August, and the monarchy might have been his once 
more ; but he is so tender-hearted, that he lets his friends be 
murdered before his eyes almost : or, at least, when he has 
turned his back upon his dut}' and his kingdom, and has skulked 
for safety into the reporters' box, at the National Assembly. 
There were hundreds of brave men who died that day, and were 
martyrs, if you will ; poor neglected tenth-rate courtiers, for 
the most part, who had forgotten old slights and disappoint- 
ments, and left their places of safety to come and die, if need 
were, sharing in the supreme hour of the monarch3\ Monarchy 
was a great deal too humane to fight along with these, and so 
left them to the pikes of Santerre and the mercy of the men 
of the Sections. But we are wandering a good ten miles from 
Versailles, and from the deeds which Louis XVI. performed 
there. 

He is said to have been such a smart journej^man blacksmith, 
that he might, if Fate had not perversely placed a crown on his 
head, have earned a couple of louis ever}- week by the making 
of locks and ke3'S. Those who will may see the workshop 
where he employed man^^ useful hours : Madame Elizabeth was 
at praj'ers meanwhile ; the queen was making pleasant parties 
with her ladies. Monsieur the Count d'Artois was learning to 
dance on the tight-rope ; and Monsieur de Provence was culti- 
vating Veloquence du billet and studjing his favorite Horace. It 







THE LITTLE TKIAKON OF MAIUE ANTOIKETTE 



MEDITATIONS AT VERSAILLES. 289 

is said that each member of the august family succeeded 
remarkablj' well in his or her pursuits ; big Monsieur's little 
notes are still cited. At a minuet or S3'llabub, poor Antoinette 
was unrivalled ; and Charles, on the tight-rope, was so graceful 
and so yentil^ that Madame Saqui miglit envy him. The time 
only was out of joint. O cursed spite, that ever such harmless 
creatures as these were bidden to right it ! 

A walk to the little Trianon is both pleasing and moral : no 
doubt the reader has seen the pretty fantastical gardens which 
environ it ; the groves and temples ; the streams and caverns 
(whither, as the guide tells you, during the heat of summer, it 
was the custom of Marie Antoinette to retire, with her favor- 
ite, Madame de Lamballe) : the lake and Swiss village are pretty 
little toys, moreover ; and the cicerone of the place does not 
fail to point out the different cottages which surround the piece 
of water, and tell the names of the royal masqueraders who 
inhabited each. In the long cottage, close upon the lake, dwelt 
the Seigneur du Village, no less a personage than Louis XV. ; 
Louis XVL, the Da-uphin, was the Bailli ; near his cottage is 
that of Monseigneur the Count d'Artois, who was the Miller ; 
opposite lived the Prince de Conde, who enacted the part of 
Gamekeeper (or, indeed, any other role, for it does not signify 
much) ; near him was the Prince de Rohan, who was the Au- 
monier ; and yonder is the pretty little dair}", which was under 
the charge of the fair Marie Antoinette herself. 

I forget whether Monsieur the fat Count of Provence took 
any share of this royal masquerading ; but look at the names 
of the other six actors of the comedy, and it will be hard to find 
any person for whom Fate had such dreadful visitations in store. 
Fancy the party, in the days of their prosperity, here gathered 
at Trianon, and seated under the tall poplars by the lake, dis- 
coursing familiarly together : suppose of a sudden some con 
juring Cagliostro of the time is introduced among them, and 
foretells to them the woes that are about to come. " You, 
Monsieur I'Aumonier, the descendant of a long line of princes, 
the passionate admirer of that fair queen who sits by 3'our side, 
shall be the cause of her ruin and your own,* and shall die in 
disgrace and exile. You, son of the Condes, shall live long 
enough to see your royal race overthrown, and shall die by the 
hands of a hangman. f Y^ou, oldest son of Saint Louis, shall 
perish by the executioner's axe ; that beautiful head, O An- 
toinette, the same ruthless blade shall sever." " They shall kill 

* In the diamond-necklace affair. 
t He was found hanging in his own bedroom. 
19 



290 THE PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 

me first," saj's Lamballe, at the queen's side. " Yes, truly," 
replies the soothsayer, ' ' for Fate prescribes ruin for' your mis- 
tress and all who love her." * "And," cries Monsieur d'Artois, 
" do I not love my sister, too? I pray you not to omit me in 
your prophecies." 

To whom Monsieur Cagliostro saj^s, scornfully, " You may 
look forward to fift}^ years of life, after most of these are laid 
in the grave. You shall be a king, but^iiot die one ; and shall 
leave the crown only ; not the worthless head that shall wear 
it. Thrice shall 3'ou go into exile : 3'ou shall fl}' from the peo- 
ple, first, who would have no more of you and your race ; and 
you shall return home over half a million of human corpses, 
that have been made for the sake of 3'ou, and of a tyrant as 
great as the greatest of j^our family. Again driven away, 3'our 
bitterest enemy shall bring you back. But the strong limbs of 
France are not to be chained by such a paltry yoke as you can 
put on her : you shall be a tyrant, but in will onh' ; and shall 
have a sceptre, but to see it robbed from 3'our hand." 

" And pray. Sir Conjurer, who shall be the robber?" asked 
Monsieur the Count d'Artois. 

This I cannot sa\^, for here mj^ dream ended. The fact is, 
I had fallen asleep on one of the stone benches in the Avenue 
de Paris, and at this instant was awakened by a whirHng of 
carriages and a great clattering of national guards, lancers and 
outriders, in red. His Majesty Louis Philippe was going to 
pay a visit to the palace ; which contains several pictures of his 
own glorious actions, and which has been dedicated, by him, to 
all the glories of France. 

* Among the many lovers that rumor gave to the queen, poor Ferscu 
is the most remarkable. He seems to have entertained for her a high and 
perfectly pure devotion. He was the chief agent in the luckless escape to 
Varennes; was lurking in Paris during the time of her captivity ; and was 
concerned in the many fruitless plots that were made for her rescue. 
Ferscu lived to be an old man, but died a dreadful and violent death. He 
was dragged from his carriage by the mob, in Stockholm, and murdered 
by them. 



Mi 



EASTERN SKETCHES. 



TO 

CAPTAIN SAMUEL LEWIS, 

OV THE PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL STEAM NAVIGATION CQMPAJTr't 
SERVICE. 

My DEAR Lewis, — After a voyage, during which the cap- 
tain of the ship has displayed uncommon courage, seamanship, 
affability, or other good qualities, grateful passengers often 
present him with a token of their esteem, in the shape of tea- 
pots, tankards, trays, &c. of precious metal. Among authors, 
however, bulUon is a much rarer commodity than paper, whereof 
I beg you to accept a little in the shape of this small volume. 
It contains a few notes of a voyage which your skill and kind- 
ness rendered doubly pleasant; and of which I don't think 
there is anj- recollection more agreeable than that it was the 
occasion of making 3'our friendship. 

If the noble company in whose service j'ou command (and 
whose fleet alone makes them a third-rate maritime power in 
Europe) should appoint a few admirals in their nav}-, I hope 
to hear that your flag is hoisted on board one of the grandest 
of their steamers. But, I trust, even there you will not forget 
the "Iberia," and the delightful Mediterranean cruise we had 
in her in the Autumn of 1844. 

Most faithfully yours. 
My dear Lewis , 

W. M. THACKERAY, 

London, December 24, 1845. 



PREFACE 



On the 20th of August, 1844, the writer of this little book 

went to dine at the " Club," quite unconscious of the 

wonderful events which Fate had in store for him. 

Mr. WilUam was there, giving a farewell dinner to his friend, 
Mr. James (now Sir James) . These two asked Mr. Titmarsh 
to join company with them, and the conversation naturally fell 
upon the tour Mr. James was about to take. The Peninsular 
and Oriental Compan}^ had arranged an excursion in the 
Mediterranean, by which, in the space of a couple of months, 
as many men and cities were to be seen as Ulysses surveyed 
and noted in ten years. Malta, Athens, Smyrna, Constanti- 
nople, Jerusalem, Cairo, were to be visited, and everybody was 
to be back in London by Lord Mayor's Day. 

The idea of beholding these famous places inflamed Mr. 
Titmarsh' s mind ; and the charms of such a journey were elo- 
quently impressed upon him by Mr. James. " Come," said 
that kind and hospitable gentleman, "and make one of my 
family party ; in all your life you will never probably have a 
chance again to see so much in so short a time. Consider — 
it is as easy as a journey to Paris or to Baden." Mr. Titmarsh 
considered all these things ; but also the difficulties of the situ- 
ation ; he had but six-and-thirty hours to get ready for so 
portentous a journey — he had engagements at home — finally, 
could he afford it? In spite of these objections, however, with 
every glass of claret the enthusiasm somehow rose, and the 
difficulties vanished. 



296 PREFACE. 

But when Mr. James, to crown all, said he had no doubt 
that his friends, the Directors of the Peninsular and Oriental 
Compan}^, would make Mr. Titmarsh the present of a berth for 
the voyage, all objections ceased on his part : to break his out- 
standing engagements — to write letters to his amazed family, 
stating that they were not to expect him at dinner on Saturday 
fortnight, as he would be at Jerusalem on that day — to pur- 
chase eighteen shirts and la}^ in a sea stock of Russia ducks, — 
was the work of four-and-twenty hours ; and on the 22nd of 
August, the "Lady Mary Wood" was sailing from South- 
ampton with the " subject of the present memoir," quite as- 
tonished to find himself one of the passengers on board. 

These important statements are made partly to convince 
some incredulous friends — who insist still that the writer never 
went abroad at all, and wrote the following pages, out of pure 
fancy, in retirement at Putnej^ ; but mainl}^ to give him an 
opportunit}^ of thanking the Directors of the Company in ques- 
tion for a delightful excursion. 

It was one so easy^ so charming, and I think profitable — 
it leaves such a store of pleasant recollections for after da3's — 
and creates so mau}^ new sources of interest (a newspaper letter 
from BejTOut, or Malta, or Algiers, has twice the interest now 
that it had formerly) , — that I can't but recommend all persons 
who have time and means to make a similar journej" — vacation 
idlers to extend their travels and pursue it : above all, young 
well-educated men entering life, to take this course, we will 
say, after that at college ; and, having their book-learning 
fresh in their minds, see the living people nnd their cities, and 
the actual aspect of Nature, along the famous shores of the 
Mediterranean. 



A JOURNEY FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 



CHAPTER I. 

VIGO. 



The sun brought all the sick people out of their berths this 
morning, and the indescribable moans and noises which had 
been issuing from behind the fine painted doors on each side 
of the cabin happil}' ceased. Long before sunrise, I had the 
good fortune to discover that it was no longer necessar}^ to 
maintain the horizontal posture, and, the very instant this 
truth was apparent, came on deck, at two o'clock in the morn- 
ing, to see a noble full moon sinking westward, and millions of 
the most brilliant stars shining overhead. The night was so 
serenel^^ pure, that 3'ou saw them in magnificent airy perspec- 
tive ; the blue sky around and over them, and other more dis- 
tant orbs sparkling above, till they glittered awa}^ faintly into 
the immeasurable distance. The ship went rolling over a 
heavy, sweltering, calm sea. The breeze was a warm and soft 
one ; quite different to the rigid air we had left behind us, two 
da3's since, off the Isle of Wight. The bell kept tolling its half- 
hours, and the mate explained the mysterj^ of watch and dog- 
watch. 

The sight of that noble scene cured all the woes and discom- 
fitures of sea-sickness at once, and if there were any need to 
communicate such secrets to the public, one might tell of much 
more good that the pleasant morning-watch effected ; but there 
are a set of emotions about which a man had best be slw of 
talking lightly, — and the feelings excited by contemplating 
this vast, magnificent, harmonious Nature are among these. 
The view of it inspires a delight and ecstasy which is not only 
hard to describe, but which has something secret in it that a 
man should not utter loudly. Hope, memory, humility, tender 



298 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

3^earnings towards dear friends, and inexpressible love and 
reverence towards the Power which created the infinite uni- 
verse blazing above eternally, and the v^ast ocean shining and 
rolling* around — fill the heart with a solemn, humble happiness, 
that a person dwelling in a city has rarel}' occasion to enjoy. 
The}^ are coming awa}' from London parties at this time : the 
dear little e^'es are closed in sleep under mother's wing. How 
far off city cares and yjleasures appear to be ! how small and 
mean they seem, dwindling out of sight before this magnificent 
brightness of Nature ! But the best thoughts only grow and 
strengthen under it. Heaven shines above, and the humbled 
spirit looks up reverently towards that boundless aspect of wis- 
dom and beaut}^ You are at home, and with all at rest there, 
however far away they may be ; and through the distance the 
heart broods over them, bright and wakeful like yonder peace- 
ful stars overhead. 

The day was as fine and calm as the night ; at seven bells, 
suddenl}^ a bell began to toll ver}- much like that of a countr}^ 
church, and on going on deck we found an awning raised, a 
desk with a flag flung over it close to the compass, and the 
ship's compan}^ and passengers assembled there to hear the 
captain read the Service in a manl}"^ respectful voice. This, 
too, was a novel and touching sight to me. Peaked ridges of 
purple mountains rose to the left of the ship, — Finisterre and 
the coast of Gaiicia. The sky above was cloudless and shin- 
ing ; the vast dark ocean smiled peacefully round about, and 
the ship went rolling over it, as the people within were praising 
the Maker of all. 

In honor of the dajs it was announced that the passengers 
would be regaled with champagne at dinner ; and accordingly 
that exhilarating liquor was served out in decent profusion, the 
company drinking the captain's health with the customary ora- 
tions of compliment and acknowledgment. This feast was 
scarcel}^ ended, when we found ourselves rounding the head- 
land into Vigo Bay, passing a grim and tall island of rocky 
mountains which lies in the centre of the ba}^ 

Whether it is that the sight of land is always welcome to 
wear}^ mariners, after the perils and annoyances of a vo3^age 
of three da3^s, or whether the place is in itself extraordinaril}" 
beautiful, need not be argued ; but I have seldom seen any- 
thing more charming than the amphitheatre of noble hills into 
which the ship now came — all the features of the landscape 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 299 

being lighted up with a wonderful clearness of air, which rarel}' 
adorns a view in our countr}^ The sun had not j^et set, but 
over the town and loft}' rock}' castle of Vigo a great ghost of 
a moon was faintly visible, which blazed out brighter and 
brighter as the superior luminary retired behind the purple 
mountains of the headland to rest. Before the general back- 
ground of waving heights which encompassed the bay, rose a 
second semicircle of undulating hills, as cheerful and green as 
the mountains behind them were gray and solemn. Farms 
and gardens, convent towers, white villages and churches, and 
buildings that no doubt were hermitages once, upon the sharp 
peaks of the hills, shone brightly in the sun. The sight was 
delightfully cheerful, animated, and pleasing. 

Presently the captain roared out the magic words, " Stop 
her ! " and the obedient vessel came to a stand-still, at some 
three hundred yards from the little town, with its white houses 
clambering up a rock, defended by the superior mountain 
whereon the castle stands. Numbers of people, arrayed in 
various brilliant colors of red, were standing on the sand close 
by the tumbling, shining, purple waves : and there we beheld, 
for the first time, the royal red and yellow standard of Spain 
floating on its own ground, under the guardianship of a light 
blue sentinel, whose musket glittered in the sun. Numerous 
boats were seen, incontinently, to put off from the little shore. 

And now our attention was withdrawn from the land to a 
sight of great splendor on board. This was Lieutenant Bundy, 
the guardian of her Majesty's mails, who issued from his cabin 
in his long swallow-tailed coat with anchor buttons ; his sabre 
clattering between his legs ; a magnificent shirt-collar, of sev- 
eral inches in height, rising round his good-humored sallow face ; 
and above it a cocked hat, that shone so, I thought it was 
made of polished tin (it may have been that or oilskin) , hand- 
somely laced with black worsted, and ornamented with a shin- 
ing gold cord. A little squat boat, rowed by three ragged 
gallegos, came bouncing up to the ship. Into this Mr. Bundy 
and her Majesty's royal mail embarked with much majesty ; 
and in the twinkling of an eye, the royal standard of Eng- 
land, about the size of a pocket-handkerchief, — and at the 
bows of the boat, the man-of-war's pennant, being a strip of 
bunting considerably under the value of a farthing, — streamed 
out. 

'' They know that flag, sir," said the good-natured old tar, 
quite solemnly, in the evening afterwards: "they respect it, 
sir." The authority of her Majesty's lieutenant on board the 



300 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

steamer is stated to be so tremendous, that he may order it to 
stop, to move, to go larboard, starboard, or what you will ; and 
the captain dare only disobe}^ him suo periculo. 

It was agreed that a part}^ of us should land for half an 
hour, and taste real Spanish chocolate on Spanish ground. 
We followed Lieutenant Bund}', but humbly in the provider's 
boat ; that officer going on shore to purchase fresh eggs, milk 
for tea (in place of the slini}^ substitute of whipped yolk of 
egg which we had been using for our morning and evening 
meals), and, if possible, oysters, for which it is said the rocks 
of Vigo are famous. 

It was low tide, and the boat could not get up to the dry 
shore. Hence it was necessary to take advantage of the offers 
of sundr}' gallegos, who rushed barelegged into the water, to land 
on their shoulders. The approved method seems to be, to sit 
upon one shoulder only, holding on by the porter's whiskers ; 
and though some of our party were of the tallest and fattest 
men whereof our race is composed, and their living sedans 
exceedingly meagre and small, yet all were landed without 
accident upon the juicy sand, and forthwith surrounded by a 
host of mendicants, screaming, " I say, sir ! penny, sir ! I saj', 
English ! tam your ays ! penny ! " in all voices, from extreme 
youth to the most lousy and venerable old age. When it is 
said that these beggars were as ragged as those of Ireland, 
and still more voluble, the Irish traveller will be able to form 
an opinion of theii* capabilities. 

Through this crowd we passed up some steep rocky steps, 
through a little low gate, where, in a little guard-house and 
barrack, a few dirty little sentinels were keeping a dirty little 
guard ; and by low-roofed, whitewashed houses, with balconies, 
and women in them, — the very same women, with the very 
same head-clothes, and yellow fans and eyes, at once sly and 
solemn, which Murillo painted, — by a neat church into which 
we took a peep, and, finally, into the Plaza del Constitucion, 
ov grand 2>lace of the town, which may be about as big as that 
pleasing square, Pimip Court, Temple. We were taken to an 
inn, of which I forget the name, and were shown from one 
chamber and story to another, till we arrived at that apartment 
where the real Spanish chocolate was finally to be served out. 
All these rooms were as clean as scrubbing and whitewash 
could make them ; with simple French prints (with Spanish 
titles) on the walls ; a few rickety half-finished articles of fur- 
niture ; and, finally, an air of extremely respectable poverty. 
A jolly, black-eyed, yellow- shawled Dulciuea conducted us 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 301 

througQ the apartment, and provided us with the desired re- 
freshment. 

Sounds of clarions drew our e3'es to the Place of the Con- 
stitution ; and, indeed, I had forgotten to say, that that ma- 
jestic square was filled with militar}^ with exceedingly small 
firelocks, the men ludicrousl}' young and diminutive for the 
most part, in a uniform at once cheap and tawdrj^, — like those 
supplied to the warriors at Astley's, or from still humbler the- 
atrical wardrobes : indeed, the whole scene was just like that 
of a little theatre ; the houses curiously small, with arcades 
and balconies, out of which looked women apparently a great 
deal too big for the chambers they inhabited ; the warriors were 
in ginghams, cottons, and tinsel ; the officers had huge epaulets 
of sham silver lace drooping over their bosoms, and looked as 
as if thej^ were attired at a very small expense. Only the gen- 
eral — the captain-general (Pooch, the}' told us, was his name : 
I know not how 'tis written in Spanish) — was well got up, 
with a smart hat, a real feather, huge stars glittering on his 
portly chest, and tights and boots of the first order. Pres- 
ently, after a good deal of trumpeting, the little men marched 
off" the place. Pooch and his staff coming into the very inn in 
which we were awaiting our chocolate. 

Th3n we had an opportunity of seeing some of the civilians 
of the town. Three or four ladies passed, with fan and mantle ; 
to them came three or four dandies, duessed smartl^y in the 
French fashion, with strong Jewish physiognomies. There was 
one, a solemn lean fellow in black, with his collars extremely 
turned over, and holding before him a long ivory-tipped ebony 
cane, who tripped along the little place with a solemn smirk, 
which gave one an indescribable feehng of the truth of Gil 
Bias, and of those delightful bachelors and licentiates who 
have appeared to us all in our dreams. 

In fact we were but half an hour in this little queer Spanish 
town; and"*tt appeared like a dream, too, or a little show got 
up to amuse us. Boom ! the gun fired at the end of the funny 
httle entertainment. The women and the balconies, the beg- 
gars and the walking Murillos, Pooch and the little soldiers 
in tinsel, disappeared, and were shut up in their box again. 
Once more we were carried on the beggars' shoulders out oflf 
the shore, and we found ourselves again in the great stalwart 
roast-beef world ; the stout British steamer bearing out of the 
bay, whose purple waters had grown more purple. The sun 
had set bj^ this time, and the moon above was twice as big and 
bright as our degenerate moons are. 



302 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

The provider had already returned with his fresh stores^ 
and Bundj-'s tin hat was popped into its case, and he walking 
the deck of the packet denuded of tails. As we went out of 
the bay, occurred a little incident with which the great inci- 
dents of the day may be said to wind up. We saw before us 
a little vessel, tumbling and plunging about in the dark waters 
of the hay, with a bright light beaming from the mast. It 
made for us at about a couple of miles from the town, and 
came close up, flouncing and bobbing in the very jaws of the 
paddle, which looked as if it would have seized and twirled 
round that little boat and its light, and destroyed them for ever 
and ever. All the passengers, of course, came crowding to 
the ship's side to look at the bold little boat. 

" I SAY ! " howled a man ; "I say ! — a word ! — I say ! 
Pasagero ! Pasagero ! Pasage-e-ero ! " We were two hundred 
yards ahead by this time. 

" Go on," sa3'S the captain. 

" You may stop if you like," saj's Lieutenant Bundy, exert- 
ing his tremendous responsibilit3% It is evident that the lieu- 
tenant has a soft heart, and felt for the poor devil in the boat 
who was howling^ so piteously ' ' Pasagero ! " 

But the captain was resolute. His duty was not to take the 
man up. He was evidently an irregular customer — some one 
trjing to escape, possibly. 

The lieutenant turned away, but did not make any further 
hints. The captain was right ; but we all felt somehow disap- 
pointed, and looked back wistfully at the little boat, jumping 
up and down far astern now ; the poor little light shining in 
vain, and the poor wretch within screaming out in the most 
heart-rending accents a last faint desperate ' ' I say ! Pasa- 
gero-o ! " 

We all went down to tea rather melancholy ; but the new 
milk, in the place of that abominable whipped egg, revived us 
again; and so ended the great events on boardrthe "Lady 
Mary Wood " steamer, on the 25th August, 1844. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 303 

CHAPTER II. 

LISBON CADIZ. 

A GREAT misfortune which befalls a man who has but a single 
day to stay in a town, is that fatal duty which superstition 
entails upon him of visiting the chief lions of the city in which 
he may happen to be. You must go through the ceremony, 
however much 3'ou maj^ sigh to avoid it ; and however much 
you know that the lions in one capital roar very much like the 
lions in another ; that the churches are more or less large and 
splendid, the palaces pretty spacious, all the world over ; and 
that there is scarcel}^ a capital city in this Europe but has its 
pompous bronze statue or two of some periwigged, hook-nosed 
emperor, in a Roman habit, waving his bronze baton on his 
broad-flanked brazen charger. We only saw these state old 
lions in Lisbon, whose roar has long since ceased to frighten 
one. First we went to the church of St. Roch, to see a famous 
piece of mosaic- work there. It is a famous work of art, and 
was bought by I don't know what king for I don't know how 
much mone}'. All this information may be perfectly relied on, 
though the fact is, we did not see the mosaic- work : the 
sacristan, who guards it, was 3'et in bed ; and it was A^eiled 
from our eyes in a side-chapel by great dirty damask curtains, 
which could not be removed, except when the sacf-istan's toilette 
was done ; and at the price of a dollar. So we wei-e spared this 
mosaic exhibition ; and I think I always feel relieved when such 
an event occurs. I feel I have done my duty in coming to see 
the enormous animal ; if he is not at home, vij-tuU meu me, S^c. 
— we have done our best, and mortal can do no more. 

In order to reach that church of the forbidden mosaic, we 
had sweated up several most steep and dusty streets — hot and 
dust}', although it was but nine o'clock in the morning. Thence 
the guide conducted us into some little dust-powdered gardens, 
in which the people make believe to enjo}^ the verdure, and 
whence you look over a great part of the arid, dreary, stony 
city. There was no smoke, as in honest London, only dust — 
dust ov'?r the gaunt houses and the dismal 3^ellow strips of 
gardens. Man}^ churches were there, and tall, half-baked- 
looking public edifices, that had a dry, uncomfortable, earth- 
quaky look, to mj^ idea. The ground-floors of the spacious 



304 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

houses b}^ which we passed seemed the coolest and pleasantest 
l^ortions of the mansion. The}' were cellars or warehouses, for 
the most part, in whicli vvhite-jacketed clerks sat smoking easy 
cigars. The streets were plastered with placards of a bull-fight, 
to take place the next evening (there was no opera at that 
season) ; but it was not a real Spanish tauromach}^ — onh- a 
theatrical combat, as you could sec b}^ the picture, in which the 
horseman was cantering off at three miles an hour, the bull 
tripping after him with tips to his gentle horns. Mules inter- 
minable, and almost all excellently sleek and handsome, were 
pacing down every street : here and there, but later in the da}-, 
came clattering along a smart rider on a prancing Spanish 
horse ; and in the afternoon a few families might be seen in 
the queerest old-fashioned little carriages, drawn bj' their jolly 
mules, and swinging between, or rather before, enormous wheels. 

The churches I saw were of the florid periwig architecture 
— I mean of that pompous, cauliflower kind of ornament which 
was the fashion in Louis the Fifteenth's time, at which unlucky 
period a building mania seems to have seized upon man}^ of 
the monarchs of Europe, and innumerable public edifices were 
erected. It seems to me to have been the period in all historj^ 
when society was the least natural, and perhaps the most 
dissolute ; and I have always fancied that the bloated artificial 
forms of the architecture partake of the social disorganization 
of the time. Who can respect a simpering ninny, grinning in a 
Roman dress and a full-bottomed wig, who is made to pass off^^ 
for a hero ; or a fat woman in a hoop, and of a most doubtful 
virtue, who leers at 3'ou as a goddess? In the palaces which 
we saw, several court allegories were represented, which, 
atrocious as the}^ were in point of art, might 3'et serve to 
attract the regard of the moralizer. There were Faith, Hope, 
and Charity j-estoring Don John to the arms of his happy 
Portugal : there were Virtue, Valor, and Victory saluting Don 
Emanuel : Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic (for what I know, 
or some mythologic nymphs) dancing before Don Miguel — the 
picture is there still, at the Ajuda ; and ah me ! where is poor 
Mig? Well, it is these state lies and ceremonies that we per- 
sist in going to see ; whereas a man would have a much better 
insight into Portuguese manners, by planting himself at a cor- 
ner, like yonder beggar, and watching the real transactions of 
the day. 

A drive to Belem is the regular route practised b}" the trav- 
eller who has to make only a short sta}^, and accordingly a 
couple of carriages were provided for our party, and we were 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 305 

driven through the long merry street of Belem, peopled b}- end- 
less strings of mules — by thousands of gallegos, with water- 
barrels on their shoulders, or lounging b^^ the fountains to hire, 

— b}^ the Lisbon and Belem omnibuses, with four mules, jing- 
ling along at a good pace ; and it seemed to me to present a 
far more lively and cheerful, though not so regular, an appear- 
ance as the stately quarters of the cit}^ we had left behind us. 
The little shops were at full work — the men brown, well- 
dressed, manly, and handsome : so much cannot, I am sorr}^ 
to say, be said for the ladies, of whom, with every anxiety to 
do so, our part}' could not perceive a single good-looking speci- 
men all day. The noble blue Tagus accompanies you all along 
these three miles of busy, pleasant street, whereof the chief 
charm, as I thought, was its look of genuine business — that 
appearance of comfort which the cleverest court-architect never 
knows how to give. 

The carriages (the canvas one with four seats and the chaise 
in which I drove) were brought suddenly up to a gate with the 
ro3'al arms over it ; and here we were introduced to as queer 
an exhibition as the e3'e has often looked on. This was the 
state carriage-house, where there is a museum of huge old 
tumble-down gilded coaches of the last century, Ij'ing here, 
mouldy and dark, in a sort of limbo. The gold has vanished 
from the great lumbering old wheels and panels ; the velvets 
are wofuUj' tarnished. AYhen one thinks of the patches and 
powder that have simpered out of those plate-glass windows — 
the mitred bishops, the big-wigged marshals, the shovel-hatted 
abbes which they have borne in their time — the human mind 
becomes affected in no ordinary degree. Some human minds 
heave a sigh for the glories of bygone days ; while others, con- 
sidering rather the lies and humbug, the vice and servilitj^ 
which went framed and glazed and enshrined, creaking along 
in those old Juggernaut cars, with fools worshipping under the 
wheels, console themselves for the decay of institutions that 
may have been splendid and costty, but were ponderous, 
clums}', slow, and unfit for daity wear. The guardian of these 
defunct old carriages tells some prodigious fibs concerning them : 
he pointed out one cariiage that was six hundred years old in 
his calendar ; but any connoisseur in bricabrac can see it was 
built at Paris in the Regent Orleans' time. 

Hence it is but a step to an institution in full life and vigor, 

— a noble orphan-school for one thousand bo3's and girls, 
founded b}' Don Pedro, who gave up to its use the superb con^ 
vent of Belem, with its splendid cloisters, vast airy dormitories, 

2iJ 



306 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

and magnificent church. Some Oxford gentlemen would have 
wept to see the desecrated edifice, — to think that the shaven 
polls and white gowns were banislied from it to give place to 
a thousand children, who have not even the clergy to instruct 
them. " Every lad here may choose his trade," our little in- 
formant said, who addressed us in better French than any of 
our part}' spoke, whose manners were perfectly gentlemanlike 
and respectful, and whose clothes, though of a common cotton 
stuff, were cut and worn with a militar}^ neatness and precision. 
All the children whom we remarked were dressed with similar 
neatness, and it was a pleasure to go through their various 
rooms for study, where some were busy at mathematics, some 
at drav/ing, some attending a lecture on tailoring, while others 
were sitting at the feet of a professor of the science of shoe- 
making. All the garments of the establishment were made 
b}' the pupils ; even the deaf and dumb were drawing and read- 
ing, and the blind were, for the most part, set to perform on 
musical instruments, and got up a concert for the visitors. It 
was then we wished ourselves of the numbers of the deaf and 
dumb, for the poor fellows made noises so horrible, that even 
as blind beggars they could hardly get a livelihood in the musi- 
cal way. 

Hence we were driven to the huge palace of Necessidades, 
which is but a wing of a building that no King of Portugal 
ought ever to be rich enough to complete, and which, if perfect, 
might outvie the Tower of Babel. The mines of Brazil must 
have been productive of gold and silver indeed when the founder 
imagined this enormous edifice. From the elevation on which 
it stands it commands the noblest views, — the city is spread 
before it, with its many churches and towers, and for many 
miles you see the magnificent Tagus, rolling by banks crowned 
with trees and towers. But to arrive at this enormous building 
you have to climb a steep suburb of wretched huts, many of 
them with dismal gardens of dry, cracked earth, where a few 
reedy sprouts of Indian corn seemed to be the chief cultivation, 
and which were guarded by huge plants of spiky aloes, on 
which the rags of the proprietors of the huts were sunning 
themselves. The terrace before the palace was similarly en- 
croached upon by these wretched habitations. A few millions 
judiciously expended might make of this arid hill one of the 
most magnificent gardens in the world , and the palace seems 
to me to excel for situation any royal edifice I have ever seen. 
But the huts of these swarming poor have crawled up close to 
its gates, — the superb walls of hewn stone stop all of a sudden 




ENTRANCE TO THE CONVENT OF BELEM. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 307 

with a lath-and-plaster hitch ; and capitals, and hewn stones for 
cokimns, still lying about on the deserted terrace, may He there 
for ages to come, probably, and never take their places by the 
side of their brethren in yonder tall bankrupt galleries. The 
air of this pure sky has little effect upon the edifices, — the 
edges of the stone look as sharp as if the bailders had just left 
their work ; and close to the grand entrance stands an out- 
building, part of which may have been burnt fifty years ago, 
but is in such cheerful preservation that you might fancy the 
fire had occurred yesterday. It must have been an awful sight 
from this hill to have looked at the city spread before it, and 
seen it reeling and swaying in the time of the earthquake. I 
thought it looked so hot and shaky, that one might fancy a re- 
turn of the fit. In several places still remain gaps and chasms, 
and ruins he here and there as they cracked and fell. 

Although the palace has not attained anything like its full 
growth, yet what exists is quite big enough for the monarch of 
such a little country ; and Versailles or Windsor has not apart- 
ments more nobly proportioned. The Queen resides in the 
Ajuda, a building of much less pretensions, of which the yellow 
walls and beautiful gardens are seen between Belem and the 
city. The Necessidades are only used for grand galas, recep- 
tions of ambassadors, and ceremonies of state. In the throne- 
room is a huge throne, surmounted b}^ an enormous gilt crown, 
than which I have never seen anything larger in the finest pan- 
tomime at Drury Lane ; but the effect of this splendid piece is 
lessened b}' a shabb}' old Brussels carpet, almost the only other 
article of furniture in the apartment, and not quite large enough 
to cover its spacious floor. The looms of Kidderminster have 
supplied the web which ornaments the ^' Ambassadors' Waiting- 
Room," and the ceilings are painted with huge allegories in 
distemper, which pretty well correspond with the other furni- 
ture. Of ah the undignified objects in the world, a palace out 
at elbows is surely the meanest. Such places ought not to be 
seen in adversit3', — splendor is their decencj', — and when no 
longer able to maintain it, they should sink to the level of their 
means, calmly subside into manufactories, or go shabby in 
seclusion. 

There is a picture-gallery belonging to the palace that is 
quite of a piece with the furniture, where are the mythological 
pieces relative to the kings before alluded to, and where the 
EngUsh visitor will see some astonishing pictures of the Duke 
of Wellington, done in a very characteristic style of Portuguese 
art. There is also a chapel, which has been decorated with 



308 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

much care and snmptiiousness of ornament, — the altar sur- 
mounted by a ghastly and horrible carved figure in the taste of 
the time when faith was strengthened b}' the shrieks of Jews 
on the rack, and enlivened by the roasting of heretics. Other 
such frightful images may be seen in the churches of the city ; 
those which we saw were still rich, tawdry, and splendid to 
outward show, although the French, as usual, had robbed their 
shrines of their gold and silver, and the statues of their jewels 
and crowns. But brass and tinsel look to the visitor full as 
well at a little distance, — as doubtless Soult and Junot thought, 
when they despoiled these places of worship, like French phi- 
losophers as they were. 

A friend, with a classical turn of mind, was bent upon see- 
ing the aqueduct, whither we went on a dismal excursion of 
three hours, in the worst carriages, over the most diabolical 
clattering roads, up and down dreary parched hills, on which 
grew a few gra3' olive-trees and man^^ aloes. When we arrived, 
the gate leading to the aqueduct was closed, and we were en- 
tertained with a legend of some respectable character who had 
made a good livelihood there for some time past latel}, having 
a private ke}' to this A'^er}'^ aqueduct, and lying in wait there for 
unwary travellers like ourselves, whom he pitched down the 
arches into the ravines below, and there robbed them at leisure. 
So that all we saw was the door and the tall arches of the aque- 
duct, and bj^ the time we returned to town it was time to go on 
board the ship again. If the inn at which we had sojourned 
was not of the best quality, the bill, at least, would have done 
honor to the first establishment in London. We all left the 
house of entertainment joyfully, glad to get out of the sunburnt 
city and go home. Yonder in the steamer was home, with its 
black funnel and gilt portraiture of " Lad^' Mar}' Wood" at 
the bows ; and ever}^ soul on board felt glad to return to the 
friendl}^ little vessel. But the authorities of Lisbon, however, 
are very suspicious of the departing stranger, and we were 
made to lie an hour in the river before the Sanita boat, where 
a passport is necessar}^ to be procured before the traveller can 
quit the countrj'. Boat after boat, laden with priests and peas- 
antry, with handsome red-sashed gallegos clad in brown, and 
ill-favored women, came and got their permits, and were off, as 
we lay bumping up against the old hull of the Sanita boat : but 
the officers seemed to take a delight in keeping us there bump- 
ing, looked at us quite calml}' over the ship's sides, and smoked 
their cigars without the least attention to the prayers which we 
shrieked out for release 




TOWER OF BELEM. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 309 

If we were glad to get away from Lisbon, we were quite as 
sorry to be obliged to quit Cadiz, which we reached the next 
night, and where we were allowed a couple of hours' leave to 
land and look about. It seemed as handsome within as it is 
statelj^ without ; the long narrow streets of an admirable clean- 
liness, mau}^ of the tall houses of rich and noble decorations, 
and all looking as if the city were in full prosperity. I have 
seen no more cheerful and animated sight than the long street 
leading from the quay where we were landed, and the market 
blazing in sunshine, piled with fruit, fish, and poultry, under 
many-colored awnings ; the tall white houses with their balco- 
nies and galleries shining roiyid about, and the sky above so 
blue that the best cobalt in all the paint-box looks muddj* and 
dim in comparison to it. There were pictures for a year in 
that market-place — from the copper-colored old hags and beg- 
gars who roared to you for the love of heaven to give mone}', 
to the swaggering dandies of the market, with red sashes and 
tight clothes, looking on superblj', with a hand on the hip and 
a cigar in the mouth. These must be the chief critics at the 
great bull-fight house 3'onder by the Alameda, with its scanty 
trees and cool breezes, facing the water. Nor are there any 
corks to the bulls' horns here as at Lisbon. A small old Eng- 
lish guide, who seized upon me the moment my foot was on 
shore, had a store of agreeable legends regarding the bulls, 
men, and horses that had been killed with unbounded profusion 
in the late entertainments which have taken place. 

It was so earlj' an hour in the morning that the shops were 
scarcely opened as 3'et ; the churches, however, stood open for 
the faithful, and we met scores of women tripping towards 
them with pretty feet, and smart black mantillas, from which 
looked out fine dark ej'es and handsome pale faces, very differ- 
ent from the coarse brown countenances we had seen at Lisbon. 
A verj' handsome modern cathedral, built by the present bishop 
at his own charges, was the finest of the public edifices we saw ; 
it was not, however, nearly so much frequented as another 
little church, crowded with altars and fantastic ornaments, and 
lights and gilding, where we were told to look behind a huge 
iron grille, and beheld a bevy of black nuns kneeling. Most 
of the good ladies in the front ranks stopped their devotions, 
and looked at the strangers with as much curiosity as we di- 
rected at them through the gloom}' bars of their chapel. The 
men's convents are closed ; that which contains the famous 
Murillos has been turned into an academy- of the fine arts ; 
but the Encrlish sfuide did not think the pictures were of suf- 



310 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

ficient interest to detain strangers, and so hurried us back to 
the shore, and grumbled at onl3^ getting three shillings at part- 
ing for his trouble and his information. And so our residence 
in Andalusia began and ended before breakfast, and we went 
on board and steamed for Gibraltar, looking, as we passed, 
at Joinviile's black squadron, and the white houses of St. 
Mary's across the ba}', with the hills of Medina Sidonia and 
Granada lying purple beyond them. There's something even 
in those names which is pleasant to write down ; to have 
passed onl^- two hours in Cadiz is something — to have seen 
real donnas with comb and mantle — real caballeros with cloak 
and cigar — real Spanish barbers lathering out of brass basins, 
— and to have heard guitars under the balconies : there was 
one that an old beggar was jangling in the market, whilst 
a huge leering fellow in bushy whiskers and a faded velvet 
dress came singing and jumping after our party, — not singing 
to a guitar, it is true, but imitating one capitally with his voice, 
and cracking his fingers by way of castanets, and performing 
a dance such as Figaro or Lablache might envy. How clear 
that fellow's voice thrums on the ear even now ; and how 
bright and pleasant remajins the recollection of the fine city 
and the blue sea, and th-.^ Spanish flags floating on the boats 
that danced over it, and Joinviile's band beginning to play 
stirring marches as we puffed out of the bay. 

The next stage was Gibraltar, where we were to change 
horses. Before sunset we skirtexl along the dark savage moun- 
tains of the African coast, and came to the Rock just before 
gun-fire. It is the ver}' image of an enormous lion, crouched 
between tlie Atlantic and the Mediterranean, and set there to 
guard the passage for its British mistress. The next British lion 
is Malta, four days further on in the Midland Sea, and read}^ 
to spring upon Egypt or pounce upon Syria, or roar so as to 
be heard at Marseilles in case of need. 

To the eyes of the civilian the first-named of these famous 
fortifications is b}' far the most imposing. The Rock looks so 
tremendous, that to ascend it, even without the compliment of 
shells or shot, seems a dreadful task — what would it be when 
all those mysterious lines of batteries were vomiting fire and 
brimstone ; when all those dark guns that 3'ou see poking their 
grim heads out of everv imaginable cleft and zigzag should 
salute you with shot, both hot and cold; and when, after tug- 
ging up the hideous perpendicular place, you were to find regi- 
ments of British grenadiers ready to plunge bayonets into your 



jj 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 311 

poor pantiDg stomach, and let out artificial!}' the little breath 
left there? It is a marvel to think that soldiers will mount 
such places for a shilling — ensigns for five and ninepence — a 
day : a cabman would ask double the money to go lialf way ! 
One meekly reflects upon the above strange truths, leaning over 
the ship's side, and looking up the huge mountain, from the 
tower nestled at the foot of it to the thin flagstaff at tiie sum- 
mit, up to which have been piled the most ingenious edifices for 
murder Christian science ever adopted. My hobb^'-horse is a 
quiet beast, suited for Park riding, or a gentle trot to Putne}' 
and back to a snug stable, and plenty of feeds of corn: — it 
can't abide climbing hills, and is not at all used to gunpowder. 
Some men's animals are so spirited that the ver\' appearance of 
a stone-wall sets them jumping at it : regular chargers of hob- 
bies, which snort and say — " Ha, ha! " at the mere notion of 
a battle. 



CHAPTER III. 

THE "lady MARY WOOD." 

Our week's voyage is now drawing to a close. We have 
just been to look at Cape Trafalgar, shining white over the 
finest blue sea. (We, who were looking at Trafalgar Square 
only the other day!) The sight of that cape must have dis- 
gusted Joinville and his fleet of steamers, as they passed yes- 
terday into Cadiz ba}-, and to-morrow will give them a sight of 
St. Vincent. 

One of their steam-vessels has been lost off the coast of 
Africa ; they were obliged to burn her, lest the Moo:s should 
take possession of her. She was a virgin vessel, just out of 
Brest. Poor innocent ! to die in the very first month of her 
union with the noble whiskered god of war ! 

We Britons on board the Enghsh boat received the news of 
the " Groenenland's " abrupt demise with grins of satisfaction. 
It was a sort of national compliment, and cause of agreeable 
congratulation. " The lubbers ! " we said ; " the clumsy hum- 
bugs ! there's none but Britons to rule the waves ! " and we 
gave ourselves piratical airs, and went down presently and 
were sick in our little buggy berths. It was pleasant, cer- 
tainly, to laugh at Joinviile's admiral's flag floating at his fore- 



312 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

mast, in yonder black ship, with its two thundering great guns 
at the bows and stern, its busj' crew swarming on the deck, 
and a crowd of obsequious shore-boats bustling round the ves- 
sel — and to sneer at the Mogador warrior, and vow that we 
English, had we been inclined to do the business, would have 
performed it a great deal better. 

Now 3"esterday at Lisbon we saw H. M. S. "Caledonia." 
This, on the contrarj^, inspired us with feelings of respect and 
awful pleasure. There she lay — the huge sea-castle — bearing 
the unconquerable flag of our countrj^ She had but to open 
her jaws, as it were, and she might bring a second earthquake 
on the city — batter it into kingdom-come — with the Ajuda 
palace and the Necessidades, the churches, and the lean, dry, 
empty streets, and Don John, tremendous on horseback, in the 
midst of Black Horse Square. Wherever we looked we could 
see that enormous "Caledonia," with her flashing three lines 
of guns. We looked at the little boats which ever and anon 
came out of this monster, with humble wonder. There was the 
lieutenant who boarded us at midnight before we dropped 
anchor in the river : ten white-jacketed men palling as one, 
swept along with the barge, gig, boat, curricle,' or coach-and- 
six, with which he came up to us. We examined him — his 
red whiskers — his collars turned down — -.his duck trousers, 
his bullion epaulets — with awe. With the same reverential 
feeling we examined the seamen — the young gentleman in the 
bows of the boat — the handsome young officers of marines we 
met sauntering in the town next day — the Scotch surgeon who 
boarded us as we weighed anchor — every man, down to the 
broken-nosed mariner who was drunk in a wine-house, and had 
" Caledonia" written on his hat. Whereas at the Frenchmen 
we looked with undisguised contempt. We were ready to burst 
with laughter as we passed the Prince's vessel — there was a 
little French boy in a French boat alongside cleaning it, and 
twirling about a little French mop — we thought it the most 
comical, contemi)tible French boy, mop, boat, steamer, prince 
— Psha ! it is of this v*- retched vaporing stutf that false patriot- 
ism is made. I write this as a sort of homily apropos of the 
day, and Cape Trafalgar, off which we he. What business 
have I to strut the deck, and clap my wings, and cr}^ " Cock- 
a-doodle-doo " over it ? Some compatriots are at that w^ork 
even now. 

We have lost one b}^ one all our jovial compan}'. There 
were the five Oporto wine-merchants — all hearty English gen- 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. olo 

tlemen — gone to their wine-butts, and their red-legged part- 
ridges, and their duels at Oporto. It appears that these gallant 
Britons fight every morning among themselves, and give the 
benighted people among whom the}^ live an opportunity to 
ad nine the spirit national. There is tiie brave, honest major, 
witli his wooden leg — the kindest and simplest of Irishmen : 
he has embraced his children, and reviewed his little invalid 
garrison of fifteen men, in the fort which he commands at 
Belem, by this time, and, I have no doubt, pla3'ed to every 
soul of them the twelve tunes of his musical- box. It was 
pleasant to see him with that musical-box — how pleased he 
wound it up after dinner — how happily he hstened to the Uttle 
clinking tunes as they galloped, ding-dong, after each other. 
A man who carries a musical-box is always a good-natured 
man. 

Then there was his Grace, or his Grandeur, the Archbishop 
of Beyrouth (in the parts of the infidels), his Hohness's Nuncio 
to the court of her Most Faithful Majesty, and vs^ho mingled 
among us like any simple mortal, — except that he had an extra 
smiling courtesy, which simple mortals do not alwa3's possess ; 
and when you passed him as such, and puffed your cigar in his 
face, took off his hat with a grin of such prodigious rapture, 
as to lead you to suppose that the most delicious privilege of 
his whole life was that permission to look at the tip of your 
nose or of 3'our cigar. With this most reverend prelate was his 
Grace's brother and chaplain — a ver}- greas}' and good-natured 
ecclesiastic, who, from his physiognomy, I would have imagined 
to be a dignitary of the Israelitish rather than thj Romish church 
— as profuse in smihng courtesy as his Lordship of Beyrouth. 
These two had a meek little secretary between them, and a tall 
French cook and valet, who, at meal times, might be seen busy 
about the cabin where their reverences lay. They were on 
tlieir backs for the greater part of the voyage ; their yellow 
countenances were not only unshaven, but, to judge from ap- 
pearances, unwashed. They ate in private ; and it was only 
of evenings, aS the sun was setting over the western wave, and, 
comforted b}' the dinner, the cabin passengers assembled on 
tlie quarter-deck, that we saw the dark faces of the reverend 
gentlemen among us for a while. They sank darkly into their 
berths when the steward's bell tolled for tea. 

At Lisbon, where we came to anchor at midnight, a special 
boat came off, whereof the crew exhibited every token of rev- 
(n-ence for the ambassador of the ambassador of heaven, and 
(•arried him off from our company. This abrupt departure in 



314 EASTEKi^ SKETCHES. 

the darkness disappointed some of us, who had promised our- 
selves the pleasure of seeing his Grandeur depart in state in the 
morning, shaved, clean, and in full pontificals, the tripping little 
secretary swinging an incense-pot before him, and the greasy 
chaplain bearing his crosier. 

Next day we had another bishop, who occupied the very 
same berth his Grace of Be3T0uth had quitted — was sick in 
the very same way — so much so that this cabin of the '' Lady 
Mary Wood" is to be christened "the bishop's berth" hence- 
forth ; and a handsome mitre is to be painted on the basin. 

Bishop No. 2 was a very stout, soft, kind-looking old gentle- 
man in a square cap, with a handsome tassel of green and gold 
round his portly breast and back. He was dressed in black 
robes and tight purple stockings : and we carried him from Lis- 
bon to the little flat coast of Faro, of which the meek old gen- 
tleman was the chief pastor. 

We had not been half an hour from our anchorage in the 
Tagus, when his lordship dived down into the episcopal berth. 
All that night there was a good smart breeze ; it blew fresh all 
the next day, as we went jumping over the blue bright sea ; and 
there was no sign of his lordship the bishop until we were oppo- 
site the purple hills of Algarve, which la}^ some ten miles dis- 
tant, — a yellow sunny shore stretching flat before them, whose 
long sandy flats and villages we could see with our telescope 
from the steamer. 

Present^ a little vessel, with a huge shining lateen sail, 
and bearing the blue and white Portuguese flag, was seen play- 
ing a sort of leap-frog on the jolly waves, jumping over them, 
and ducking down as merry as could be. This little boat came 
towards the steamer as quick as ever she could jump ; and 
Captain Cooper roaring out, "Stop her!" to "Lady Mary 
Wood," her ladyship's paddles suddenly ceased twirling, and 
news was carried to the good bishop that his boat was almost 
alongside, and that his hour was come. 

It was rather an affecting sight to see the poor old fat gen- 
tleman, looking wistfully over the water as the boat now came 
up, and her eight seamen, with great noise, energy, and gesticu- 
lation laid her by the steamer. The steamer steps were let 
down ; his lordship's servant, in blue and yellow liver^', (like 
the " Edinburgh Review,") cast over the episcopal luggage into 
the boat, along with his own bundle and the jack-boots with 
which he rides postilion on one of the bishop's fat mules at Faro. 
The blue and yellow domestic went down the steps into the 
boat. Then came the bishop's turn ; but he couldn't do it for 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 315 

a long while. He went from one passenger to another, sadly 
shaking them by the hand, often taking leave and seeming loth 
to depart, until Captain Cooper, in a stern but respectful tone, 
touched him on the shoulder, and said, I know not with what 
correctness, being ignorant of the Spanish language, " Senor 
'Bispo, Senor 'Bispp ! " on which summons the poor old man, 
looking ruefully round him once more, put his square cap under 
his arm, tucked up his long black petticoats, so as to show his 
purple stockings and jolly fat calves, and went trembling down 
the steps towards the boat. The good old man ! I wish I had 
had a shake of that trembling podgy hand somehow before he 
went upon his sea martyrdom. I felt a love for that soft-hearted 
old Christian. Ah ! let us hope his governante tucked him com- 
fortably in bed when he got to Faro that night, and made him 
a warm gruel and put his feet in warm water. The men clung 
around him, and almost kissed him as they popped him into the 
boat, but he did not heed their caresses. Away went the boat 
scudding madly before the wind. Bang ! another lateen-sailed 
boat in the distance fired a gun in his honor ; but the wind was 
blowing away from the shore, and who knows when that meek 
bishop got home to his gruel ! 

I think these were the notables of our part3\ I will not 
mention the laughing, ogling lad}' of Cadiz, whose manners, I 
very much regret to sa}', were a great deal too livel}' for mj* 
sense of propriety ; nor those fair sufferers, her companions, who 
lay on the deck with sickly, smiling, female resignation : nor 
the heroic children, who no sooner ate biscuit than thej^ were 
ill, and no sooner were ill than they began eating biscuit 
again ; but just allude to one other martyr, the kind lieutenant 
in charge of the mails, and who bore his cross with what I can't 
but think a very touching and noble resignation. 

There's a certain sort of man whose doom in the world is 
disappointment, — who excels in it, — aiid whose luckless tri- 
umphs in his meek career of life, 1 have often thought, must 
be regarded by the kind eyes above with as much favor as 
the splendid successes and achieveoients of coarser and more 
prosperous men. As I sat with the lieutenant upon deck, his 
telescope laid over his lean legs, and he looking at the sunset 
with a pleased, withered old face, he gave me a little account 
of his history. I take it he is in nowise disinclined to talk 
about it, simple as it is : he has been seven-and-thirt}' 3'ears in 
the nav}', being somewhat more mature in the service than 
Lieutenant Peel, Rear- Admiral Prince de Joinville, and other 
commanders who need not be mentioiied. lie is a very well- 



316 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

educated man, and reads prodigiously, — travels, histories, lives 
of eminent worthies and heroes, in his simple way. He is not 
in the least angry at his want of luck in the profession. 
" Were I a boy to-morrow," he said, " I would begin it again ; 
and when I see my schoolfellows, and how they have got on in 
life, if some are better off than I am, I find many are worse, 
and have no call to be discontented." So he carries her 
Majesty's mails meekly through this world, waits upon port- 
admirals and captains in his old glazed hat, and is as proud of 
the pennon at the bow of his little boat, as if it were flying 
from the mainmast of a thundering man-of-war. He gets two 
hundred a year for his services, and has an old mother and a 
sister Uving in England somewhere, who I will wager (though 
he never, I swear, said a word about it) have a good portion of 
this princely income. 

Is it breaking a confidence to tell Lieutenant Bundy's his- 
tory? Let the motive excuse the deed. It is a good, kind, 
wholesome, and noble character. Why should we keep all our 
admiration for those who win in this world, as we do, sycophants 
as we are? When we write a novel, our great, stupid imagina- 
tions can go no further than to marry the hero to a fortune at 
the end, and to find out that he is a lord by right. O blunder- 
ing, lickspittle morality ! And j'et I would like to fancy some 
happy retributive Utopia in the peaceful cloudland, where m^' 
friend the meek lieutenant should find the yards of his ship 
manned as he went on board, all the guns firing an enormous 
salute (only without the least noise or vile smell of powder) , 
and he be saluted on the deck as Admiral Sir James, or Sir Jo- 
seph — ay, or Lord Viscount Bundy, knight of all the orders 
above the sun. 

I think this is a sufiflcient, if not a complete catalogue of the 
worthies on board the " Lady Mary Wood." In the week we 
were on board — it seemed a year by the way — we came to 
regard the ship quite as a home. We felt for the captain — the 
most good-humored, active, careful, read}- of captains — a filial, 
a fraternal regard ; for the provider, who provided for us with 
admirable comfort and generosit}^ a genial gratitude ; and for the 
brisk steward's lads — brisk in serving the banquet, sympathiz- 
ing in handing the basin — ever}^ possible sentiment of regard 
and good- will. What winds blew, and how many knots we ran, 
are all noted down, no doubt, in the ship's log : and as for what 
ships we saw — every one of them with their gunnage, tonnage, 
their nation, their direction whither the}' were bound — were 
not these all noted clov/n with siirnriginir insrenuitv and precision 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. S17 

by the lieutenant, at a family desk at which he sat every night, 
before a great paper elegantly and mysteriously ruled off with 
his large ruler? I have a regard for every man on board that 
ship, from the captain down to the crew — down even to the 
cook, with tattooed arms, sweating among the saucepans hi the 
galle}', who used (with a touching affection) to send us locks of 
his hair in the soup. And so, while our feelings and recollec- 
tions are wann, let us shake hands with this knot of good 
fellows, comfortabh' floating about in their little box of wood 
and iron, across Channel, Biscaj^ Bay, and the Atlantic, from 
Southampton Water to Gibraltar Straits. 



CHAPTER IV. 

GIBRALTAR. 

Suppose all the nations of the earth to send fitting ambassa- 
dors to represent them at Wapping or Portsmouth Point, with 
each, under its own national signboard and language, its appro- 
priate house of call, and your imagination may figure the Main 
Street of Gibraltar : almost the onlj- part of the town, I believe, 
which boasts of the name of street at all, the remaining house- 
rows being modestly called lanes, such as Bomb Lane, Battery 
Lane, Fusee Lane, and so on. In Main Street the Jews predomi- 
nate, the Moors abound; and from the "Jolly Sailor," or the 
brave " Horse Marine," where the people of our nation are drink- 
ing British beer and gin, you hear choruses of " Garryowen " or 
'' Tlie Lass I left behind me ; " while through the flaring lattices 
of the Spanish ventas come the clatter of castanets and the 
jingle and moan of Spanish guitars and ditties. It is a curious 
sight at evening this thronged street, with the people, in a 
hundred different costumes, bustling to and fro under the coarse 
flare of the lamps ; swarthy Moors, in white or crimson robes ; 
dark Spanish smugglers in tufted hats, with gay silk handker- 
chiefs round their heads ; fuddled seamen from men-of-war, or 
merchantmen ; porters, Galician or Genoese ; and at every few 
minutes' interval, little squads of soldiers tramping to relieve 
guard at some one of the innumerable posts in the town. 

vSome of our party went to a Spanish venta, as a more coTT- 
venient or romantic place of residence than a" English house -, 



318 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

others made choice of the club-house in Commercial Square, 
of which I formed an agreeable picture in m}' imagination ; 
rather, perhaps, resembling the Junior United Service Club in 
Charles Street, b}^ which everj- Londoner has passed ere this 
with respectful pleasure, catching glimpses of magnificent 
blazing candelabras, under which sit neat half-pay oflicers, 
drinking half- pints of port. The club-house of Gibraltar is not, 
however, of the Charles Street sort ; it ma}^ have been cheerful 
once, and tliere are ,yet relics of splendor about it. When 
officers wore pigtails, and in the time of Governor O'Hara, it 
ma}^ have been a handsome place ; but it is mouldy and decrepit 
now ; and though his Excellenc}' , Mr. Bulwer, w^as living there, 
and made no complaints that I heard of, other less distinguished 
persons thought they had reason to grumble. Indeed, what is 
travelling made of ? At least half its pleasures and incidents 
come out of inns ; and of them the tourist can speak with much 
more truth and vivacity than of historical recollections compiled 
out of histories, or filched out of handbooks. But to speak of 
the best inn in a place needs no apology ; that, at least, is use- 
ful information ; as every person intending to visit Gibraltar 
cannot have seen the flea-bitten countenances of our companions, 
who fled from their Spanish venta to take refuge at the club the 
morning after our arrival, the}' maj" surely be thankful for being 
directed to the best house of accommodation in one of the most 
unromantic, uncomfortable, and prosaic of towns. 

If one had a right to break the sacred confidence of the 
mahogan}^ I could entertain you with many queer stories of 
Gibraltar life, gathered from the lips of the gentlemen who 
enjo3'ed themselves round the dingy tablecloth of the club-house 
coflTee-room, richly decorated with cold gravy and spilt beer. I 
heard there the very names of the gentlemen who wrote the 
famous letters from the " Warspite " regarding the French pro- 
ceedings at Mogador ; and met several refugee Jews from that 
place, who said that thej^ were much more afraid of the Kabyles 
without the city than of the guns of the French squadron, of 
which they seemed to make rather light. I heard the last odds 
on the ensuing match between Captain Smith's b. g. Bolter, 
and Captain Brown's ch. c. Roarer : how the gun-room of her 
Majesty's ship " Purgatory " had " cobbed " a tradesman of the 
town, and of the row in consequence. I heard capital stories 
of the way in which Wilkins had escaped the guard, and Thomp- 
son had been locked up among the mosquitoes for being out 
after ten without the lantern. I heard hov\^ the governor was an 
old f but to saj what, would be breaking a confidence ; only 



FROM CORNHiLL TO CAIRO. 319 

this may be divulged, that the epithet was exceeding!}'' compli- 
mentaiy to Sir Robert Wilson. All the while these conversations 
were going on, a strange scene of noise and bustle was passing 
in the market-place, in front of the window, where Moors, Jews, 
Spaniards, soldiers were thronging in the sun ; and a ragged fat 
fellow, mounted on a tobacco-barrel, with his hat cocked on his 
ear, was holding an auction, and roaring with an energy and 
impudence that would have done credit to Covent Garden. 

The Moorish castle is the only building about the Rock which 
has an air at all picturesque or romantic ; there is a plain Roman 
Catholic cathedral, a hideous new Protestant church of the cigar- 
divan architecture, and a Court-house with a portico vvdiich is 
said to be an imitation of the Parthenon : the ancient religious 
houses of the Spanish town are gone, or turned into military 
residences, and marked so that you would never know their 
former pious destination. You walk through narrow white- 
washed lanes, bearing such martial names as are before men- 
tioned, and by-streets with barracks on either side : small 
Newgate-like looking buildings, at the doors of which j^ou ma}' 
see the sergeants' ladies conversing ; or at the open windows of 
the officers' quarters, Ensign Fipps lying on his sofa and smok- 
ing his cigar, or Lieutenant Simson practising the flute to while 
awa}' the weary hours of garrison dulness. I wac surprised not 
to find more persons in the garrison library, where is a magnifi- 
cent reading-room, and an admirable collection of books. 

In spite of the scanty herbage and the dust on the trees, the 
Alameda is a beautiful walk ; of which the vegetation has been 
as laboriously cared for as the tremendous fortifications which 
flank it on either side. The vast Rock rises on one side with 
its interminable works of defence, and Gibraltar Bay is shining 
on the other, out on which from the terraces immense cannon 
are perpetually looking, surrounded by plantations of cannon- 
balls and beds of bomb-shells, sufficient, one would think, to 
blow away the whole Peninsula. The horticultural and military 
mixture is indeed very queer : here and there temples, rustic 
summer-seats, &c. have been erected in the garden, but 3^ou are 
sure to see a great squat mortar look up from among the flower- 
pots : and amidst the aloes and geraniums sprouts the green 
petticoat and scarlet coat of a Highlander. Fatigue-parties are 
seen winding up the hill, and busy about the endless cannon- 
ball plantations ; awkward squads are drilling in the open 
spaces : sentries marching everywhere, and (this is a caution to 
artists) I am told have orders to run any man through, who is 
discovered making a sketch of the place. It is always beautiful. 



320 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

especially at evening, when the people are sauntering along the 
walks, and the moon is shining on the waters of the bay and 
the hills and twinkling white houses of the opposite shore. Then 
the place becomes quite romantic : it is too dark to see the 
dust on the dried leaves ; the cannon-balls do not intrude too 
much, but have subsided into the shade ; the awkward squads 
are in bed ; even the loungers are gone, the fan-flirting Spanish 
hidies, the sallow black-eyed children, and the trim white- 
jacketed dandies. A fife is heard from some craft at roost on 
the quiet waters somewhere ; or a faint cheer from 3'onder black 
steamer at the Mole, which is about to set out on some night 
expedition. You forget that the town is at all like Wapping, 
and deliver yourself up entirely to romance ; the sentries look 
noble pacing there, silent in the moonlight, and Sandy's voice 
is quite musical as he challenges with a ' ' Who goes there ? " 

" All's "well " is' verj^ pleasant when sung decentl3^ in tune, 
and inspires noble and poetic ideas of duty, courage, and 
danger : but when you hear it shouted all the night through, 
accompanied by a clapping of muskets in a time of profound 
peace, the sentinel's cr}^ becomes no more romantic to the 
hearer than it is to the sandy Connaught-man or the barelegged 
Highlander who delivers it. It is best to read about wars com- 
fortably in Harry Lorrequer or Scott's novels, in which knights 
shout their war-cries, and jovial Irish bayoneteers hurrah, with- 
out depriving you of any blessed rest. Men of a different way 
of thinking, however, can suit themselves perfectly at Gibraltar ; 
where there is marching and counter-marching, challenging and 
reheving guard all the night through. And not here in Com- 
mercial Square alone, but all over the huge Rock in the dark- 
ness — all through the mysterious zig-zags, and round the dark 
cannon-ball pyramids, and along the vast rock-galleries, and up 
to the topmost flagstaff, where the sentrj" can look out over two 
seas, poor fellows are marching and clapping muskets, and 
crying " All's Well," dressed in cap and feather, in place of 
honest nightcaps best befitting the decent hours of sleep. 

All these martial noises three of us heard to the utmost 
advantage, 13'ing on iron bedsteads at the time in a cracked 
old room on the ground floor, the open windows of which 
looked into the square. No spot could be more favorabl}' 
selected for watching the humors of a garrison-town by night. ' 
About midnight, the door hard b}^ us was visited by a part}' of 
young oflicers, who having had quite as much drink as was 
good for them, were naturall}^ inclined for more { and when we 
remonstrated through the windows, one of them in a young 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 321 

tipsy voice asked after our mothers, and finallj^ reeled away. 
How charming is the conversation of high-spirited youth ! I 
don't know whether the guard got hold of them : but certainly 
if a civilian had been hiccupping through the streets at that hour 
he would have been carried off to the guard-house, and left to 
the merc}^ of the mosquitoes there, and had up before the Gov- 
ernor in the morning. The young man in the coffee-room tells 
me he goes to sleep every night with the keys of Gibraltar under 
his pillow. It is an awful image, and somehow completes the 
notion of the slumbering fortress. Fancy Sir Robert Wilson, 
his nose just visible over the sheets, his nightcap and the huge 
key (you see the very identical one in Reynolds's portrait of 
Lord Heathfield) peeping out from under the bolster ! 

If I entertain you with accounts of inns and nightcaps it is 
because I am more famiUar with these subjects than with history 
and fortifications : as far as I can understand the former, Gib- 
raltar is the great British depot for smuggling goods into the 
Peninsula. You see vessels lying in the harbor, and are told 
in so many words they are smugglers ; all those smart Span- 
iards with cigar and mantles are smugglers, and run tobaccos 
and cotton into Catalonia ; all the respected merchants of the 
place are smugglers. The other day a Spanish revenue vessel 
was shot to death under the thundering great guns of the fort, 
for neglecting to bring to, but it so happened that it was in 
chase of a smuggler; in this little corner of her dominions 
Britain proclaims war to custom-houses, and protection to free 
trade. Perhaps ere a ver}' long day, England msij be acting 
that part towards the world, which Gibraltar performs towards 
Spain now ; and the last war in which we shall ever engage ma}^ 
be a custom-house war. For once establish railroads and 
abolish preventive duties through Europe, and what is there 
left to fight for? It will matter very httle then under what flag 
people live, and foreign ministers and ambassadors may enjoy 
a dignified sinecure ; the army will rise to the rank of peaceful 
constables, not having any more use for their bayonets than 
those worth}' people have for their weapons now who accom- 
pany the law at assizes under the name of javelin-men. The 
apparatus of bombs and eighty-four-pounders may disappear 
from the Alameda, and the crops of cannon-balls which now 
grow there may give place to other plants more pleasant to the 
eye ; and the great key of Gibraltar may be left in the gate for 
anybody to turn at will, and Sir Robert Wilson may sleep at 
quiet. 

21 



322 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

I am afraid I thought it was rather a release, when, having 
made up our minds to examine the Rock in detail and view the 
magnificent excavations and galleries, the adniii-ation of ail 
militar}^ men, and the terror of any enemies who may attack 
the fortress, we received orders to embark forthwith in the 
•' Tagus," which was to carry us to Malta and Constantinople. 
So we took leave of this famous Rock — this great blunderbuss 
— which we seized out of the hands of the natural owners a 
hundred and forty years ago, and which we have kept ever 
since tremendousl}' loaded and cleaned and read}^ for use. To 
seize and have it is doubtless a gallant thing ; it is like one of 
those tests of courage which one reads of in the chivalrous 
romances, when, for instance, Sir Huon of Bordeaux is called 
upon to prove his knighthood by going to Babylon and pulling 
out the Sultan's beard and front teeth in the midst of his court 
there. But, after all, justice must confess it was rather hard on 
the poor Sultan. If we had the Spaniards established at Land's 
End, with impregnable Spanish fortifications on St. Michael's 
Mount, we should perhaps come to the same conclusion. Mean- 
while let us hope, during this long period of deprivation, the 
Sultan of Spain is reconciled to the loss of his front teeth and 
bristling whiskers — let us even try to think that he is better 
without them. At all events, right or wrong, whatever may be 
our title to the property, there is no Englishman but must think 
with pride of the manner in which his countrymen have kept it, 
and of the courage, endurance, and sense of duty with which 
stout old Eliot and his companions resisted Crillion and the 
Spanish battering-ships and his fifty thousand men. There 
seems to be something more noble in the success of a gallant 
resistance than of an attack, however brave. After failing in 
his attack on the fort, the French General visited the English 
Commander who had foiled him, and parted from him and his 
garrison in perfect politeness and good humor. The Enghsh 
troops, Drinkwater says, gave him thundering cheers as he 
went awa}^, and the French in return complimented us on our 
gallantr}^, and lauded the humanit}^ of our people. If we are to 
go on murdering each other in the old-fashioned way, what a 
pity it is that our battles cannot end in the old-fashioned way 
too. 

One of our fellow-travellers, who had written a book, and 
had sufiTered considerably from sea-sickness during our passage 
along the coasts of l^^rance and Spain, consoled us all b}^ saying 
that the very minute we got into the Mediterranean we might 
consider ourselves entirely free from illness ; and, in fact, that 



FROM COKNHILL TO CAIRO. 323 

It was unheard of in the Inland Sea. Even in the Ba}^ of GITd- 
raltar the water looked bluer than anything I have ever seen — 
except Miss Smith's eyes. I thought, somehow, the delicious 
faultless azure never could look angr}^ — just like the eyes be- 
fore alluded to — and under this assurance we passed the Strait, 
and began coasting the African shore calmly and without the 
least apprehension, as if we were as much used to the tempest 
as Mr. T. P. Cooke. 

But when, in spite of the promise of the man who had written 
the book, we found ourselves worse than in the worst part of 
the Bay of Bisca}', or off the storm-lashed rocks of Finisterre, 
we set down the author in question as a gross impostor, and 
had a mind to quarrel with him for leading us into this cruel 
error. The most provoking part of the matter, too, was, that 
the sk}^ was deliciously clear and cloudless, the air balmy, the 
sea so insultingly blue that it seemed as if we had no right to be 
ill at all, and that the innumerable little waves that frisked 
round about our keel were enjoying an anerithmon gelasma (this 
is one of my four Greek quotations : depend on it I will manage 
to introduce the other three before the tour is done) — seemed 
to be enjo3'ing, I saj', the above named Greek quotation at our 
expense. Here is the dismal log of Wednesda}', 4th of Septem- 
ber : — "All attempts at dining Yevy fruitless. Basins in 
requisition. Wind hard ahead. Que diahle allais-jefaire dans 
cette galere ? Writing or thinking impossible : so read letters 
from the ^gean." These brief words give, I think, a complete 
idea of wretchedness, despair, remorse, and prostration of soul 
and bod3\ Two daN's previously we passed the forts and moles 
and yellow buildings of Algiers, rising ver}' statel}^ from the 
sea, and skirted by gloom}^ purple lines of African shore, with 
fires smoking in the mountains, and lonety settlements here and 
there. 

On the 5th, to the inexpressible joy of all, we reached 
Valetta, the entrance to the harbor of which is one of the most 
stately and agreeable scenes ever admired by sea-sick travel- 
ler. The small basin was bus}' with a hundred ships, from the 
huge guard-ship, which lies there a cit}' in itself; — merchant- 
men loading and crews cheering, under all tlie flags of the world 
flaunting in the sunshine ; a half-score of busy black steamers 
perpetually coming and going, coaling and painting, and puflftng 
and hissing in and out of harbor ; slim men-of-war's barges shoot- 
ing to and fro, with long shining oars flashing Kke wings over the 
water ; hundreds of painted town-boats, with high heads and 
white awnings, — down to the little tubs in which some naked, 



824 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

tawny 3"oung beggars came paddling up to the steamer, entreat- 
ing us to let them dive for halfpence. Round this busj^ blue 
water rise rocks, blazing in sunshine, and covered with every 
imaginable device of fortification ; to the right, St. Elmo, with 
flag and light-house ; and opposite, the Militar}' Hospital, look- 
ing like a palace ; and all round, the houses of the cit^^, for its 
size the handsomest and most stately in the world. 

Nor does it disappoint j^ou on a closer inspection, as man}^ 
a foreign town does. The streets are thronged with a lively, 
comfortable-looking population ; the poor seem to inhabit hand- 
some stone palaces, with balconies and projecting windows of 
heavy carved stone. The lights and shadows, the cries and 
stenches, the fruit-shops and fish-stalls, the dresses and chatter 
of all nations ; the soldiers in scarlet, and women in black 
mantillas ; the beggars, boatmen, barrels of pickled herrings and 
maccaroni ; the shovel-hatted priests and bearded capuchins ; 
the tobacco, grapes, onions, and sunshine ; the signboards, 
bottled-porter stores, the statues of saints and little chapels 
which jostle the stranger's e^'es as he goes up the famous stairs 
from the Water-gate, make a scene of such pleasant confusion 
and liveliness as I have never witnessed before. And the 
effects of the groups of multitudinous actors in this busy, cheer- 
ful drama is heightened, as it were, by the decorations of the 
stage. The sk}' is delightfully brilliant ; all the houses and 
ornaments are statel^^ ; castles and palaces are rising all around ; 
and the flag, towers, and walls of Fort St. Elmo look as fresh 
and magnificent as if they had been erected onl}' 3'esterday. 

The Strada Reale has a much more courtly appearance than 
that one described. Here are palaces, churches, court-houses 
and hbraries, the genteel London shops, and the latest articles 
of perfumery. Gay .young officers are strolling about in shell- 
jackets much too small for them : midshipmen are clattering by 
on hired horses ; squads of priests, habited after the fashion of 
Don Basiho in the opera, are demurely pacing to and fro ; pro- 
fessional beggars run shrieking after the stranger ; and agents 
for horses, for inns, and for worse places still, follow him and 
insinuate the excellence of their goods. The houses where 
they are selling carpet-bags and pomatum were the palaces of 
the successors of the goodliest company of gallant knights the 
world ever heard tell of. It seems unromantic ; but these were 
not the romantic Knights of St. John. The heroic days of the 
Order ended as the last Turkish galley lifted anchor after the 
memorable siege. The present stately houses were built in times 
of peace and splendor and decay. I doubt whether the Auberge 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 325 

de Provence, where the '^ Union Chib " flourishes now, hag ever 
seen anything more romantic than the pleasant balls held in the 
great room there. 

The Church of Saint John, not a handsome structure with- 
out, is magnificent within : a noble hall covered with a rich em- 
broider}^ of gilded carving, the chapels of the different nations 
on either side, but not interfering with the main structure, of 
which the whole is simple, and the details onl}^ splendid ; it 
seemed to me a fitting place for this wealthy body of aristocratic 
soldiers, who made their devotions as it were on parade, and, 
though on their knees, never forgot their epaulets or their 
quarters of nobility. This mixture of religion and worldly pride 
se?!ns incongruous at first ; but have we not at church at home 
similar relics of feudal ceremony ? — the verger with the silver 
mace who precedes the vicar to the desk ; the two chaplains of 
ni}' lord archbishop, who bow over his grace as he enters the 
communion-table gate ; even poor John, who follows my lady 
with a coroneted prayer-book, and makes his conge as he hands 
it into the pew. What a chivalrous absurdity is the banner of 
some high and mighty prince, hanging over his stall in Windsor 
Chapel, when you think of the purpose for which men are sup- 
posed to assemble there ! The Church of the Knights of St. 
John is paved over with sprawling heraldic devices of the dead 
gentlemen of the dead Order; as if, in the next world, they 
expected to take rank in conformity with their pedigrees, and 
would be marshalled into heaven according to the orders of pre- 
cedence. Cumbrous handsome paintings atlorn the walls and 
chapels, decorated with pompous monuments of Grand Masters. 
Beneath is a cr3'pt, where more of these honorable and reverend 
warriors lie, in a state that a Simpson would admire. In the 
altar are said to lie three of the most gallant relics in the world : 
the keys of Acre, Rhodes, and Jerusalem. What blood was 
shed in defending these emblems ! What faith, endurance, 
genius, and generosity ; what pride, hatred, ambition, and sav- 
age lust of blood were roused together for their guardianship ! 

In the lofty halls and corridors of the Governor's house, 
some porti'aits of the late Grand Masters still remain : a very 
fine one, by Caravaggio, of a knight in gilt armor, hangs in the 
dining-room, near a full-length of poor Louis XVI., in royal 
robes, the very picture of uneas}' impotenc}'. But the portrait 
of De Vignacourt is the only one which has a respectable air ; 
the other chiefs of the famous societ}^ are pompous old gentle- 
men in black, with huge periwigs, and crowns round their hats, 
and a couple of melancholy pages in yellow and red. But pages 



326 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

and wigs and Grand Masters have almost faded out of the 
canvas, and are vanishing into Hades ^vith a most melancholy 
indistinctness. The names of most of these gentlemen, how- 
ever, live as yet in the forts of the place, which all seem to 
have been eager to build and christen : so that it seems as if, in 
tl^e Malta mythology, they had been turned into freestone. 

In the armory is the very suit painted b}' Caravaggio, by 
the side of the armor of the noble old La Valette, whose heroism 
saved his island from the efforts of Mustapha and Dragut, and 
an ami}' quite as fierce and numerous as that which was baffled 
before Gibraltar, b}' similar courage and resolution. The 
sword of the last-named famous corsair (a most truculent little 
scimitar), thousands of pipes and halberts, little old cannons 
and wall-pieces, helmets and cuirasses, which the knights or 
their people wore, are trimly arranged against the wall, and, 
instead of spiking Turks or arming warriors, now serve to point 
morals and adorn tales. And here likewise are kept many 
thousand muskets, swords, and boarding-pikes for daily use, 
and a couple of ragged old standards of one of the English 
regiments, who pursued and conquered in Egypt the remains 
of the haught}' and famous French Republican arm}', at whose 
appearance the last knights of Malta fl.ung open the gates of all 
their fortresses, and consented to be extinguished without so 
much as a remonstrance, or a kick, or a stniggle. 

We took a drive into what may be called the countrj' ; where 
the fields are rocks, and the hedges are stones — passing by 
the stone gardens of the Florian, and wondering at the number 
and handsomeness of the stone villages and churches rising 
everywhere among the ston}' hills. Handsome villas were 
passed ever^^where, and we drove for a long distance along the 
sides of an aqueduct, quite a royal work of the Caravaggio in 
gold armor, the Grand Master De Vignacourt. A most agree- 
able contrast to the arid rocks of the general scenery was the 
garden at the Governor's country-house ; with the orange-trees 
and water, its beautiful golden grapes, luxuriant flowers, and 
thick cool shrubberies. The e3'e longs for this sort of refresh- 
ment, after being seared with the hot glare of the general 
country ; and St. Antonio was as pleasant after Malta as Malta 
was after the sea. 

We paid the island a subsequent visit in November, passing 
seventeen da3's at an establishment called Fort Manuel there, 
and by punsters the Manuel des Voyageurs ; where Govern- 
ment accommodates 3'ou with quarters ; where the authorities 
are so attentive as to scent vouj- letters with aromatic vinegar 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 327 

before j^ou receive them, and so careful of 3'Our health as to 
lock you up in your room every night lest you should walk in 
your sleep, and so over the battlements into the sea : if you 
escaped drowning in the sea, the sentries on the opposite shore 
would fire at j'ou, hence the nature of the precaution. To drop, 
however, this satirical strain : those who know what quarantine 
is, ma}' fancy that the place' somehow becomes unbearable in 
which it has been endured. And though the November climate 
of Malta is like the most delicious May in England, and though 
there is ever}' ga^'ety and amusement in the town, a comfortable 
little opera, a good old library filled full of good old books 
(none of 3'our works of modern science, travel, and history, but 
good old useless books of the last two centuries), and nobody 
to trouble you in reading them, and though the society of 
Valetta is most hospitable, varied, and agreeable, j^et somehow 
one did not feel safe in the island, with perpetual glimpses of 
Fort Manuel from the opposite shore ; and, lest the quarantine 
authorities should have a fancy to fetch one back again, on a 
pretext of posthumous plague, we made our wa}" to Naples bv 
the very first opportunity — those who remained, that is, of the 
little Eastern expedition. They were not all there. The Giver 
of life and death had removed two of our company : one was 
left behind to die in Egypt, with a mother to bewail his loss ; 
another we buried in the dismal lazaretto cemetery. 

One is bound to look at this, too, as a part of our journey. 
Disease and death are knocking perhaps at your next cabin 
door. Your kind and cheer}'^ companion has ridden his last 
ride and emptied his last glass beside 30U. And while fond 
hearts are yearning for him far awa}', and his own mind, if con- 
scious, is turning eagerly towards the spot of the world whither 
aflfection or interest calls it — the Great Father summons the 
anxious spirit from earth to himself, and ordains that the 
nearest and dearest shall meet here no more. 

Such an occurrence as a death in a lazaretto, mere selfish- 
ness renders striking. We were walking with him but two days 
ago on deck. One has a sketch of him, another his card, with 
the address written yesterday, and given with an invitation to 
come and see him at home in the countr}-, where his children 
are looking for him. He is dead in a da}', and buried in the 
walls of the prison. A doctor felt his pulse by deputy — a 
clergyman comes from the town to read the last service over 
him — and the friends, who attend his funeral, are marshalled 
by lazaretto-guardians, so as not to touch each other. Every 



328 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

man goes back to his room and applies the lesson to himself. 
One would not so depart without seeing again the dear, dear 
faces. We reckon up those we love : they are but very few, 
but I think one loves them better than ever now. Should it be 
your turn next ? — and wh}^ not ? Is it pit}' or comfort to think 
of that affection which watches and survives 3'ou ? 

The Maker has linked together the whole race of man with 
this chain of love. I like to think that there is no man but has 
had kindl}^ feelings for some other, and he for his neighbor, 
until we bind together the whole family of Adam. Nor does it 
end here. It joins heaven and earth together. For ni}- friend 
or my child of past days is still m}^ friend or my child to me 
here, or in the home prepared for us by the Father of all. 
If identitj' survives the grave, as our faith tells us, is it not a 
consolation to think that there may be one or two souls among 
the purified and just, whose affection watches us invisible, and 
follows the poor sinner on earth? 



CHAPTER V. 

ATHENS. 

Not feeling any enthusiasm myself about Athens, my 
bounden duty of course is clear, to sneer and laugh heartity at 
all who have. In fact, what business has a lawyer, who was 
in Pump Court this day three weeks, and whose common read- 
ing is law reports or the newspaper, to pretend to fall in love 
for the long vacation with mere poetry, of which I swear a great 
deal is very doubtful, and to get up an enthusiasm quite foreign 
to his nature and usual calling in life ? What call have ladies 
to consider Greece " romantic," they who get their notions of 
mythology from the well-known pages of " Tooke's Pantheon ? " 
Wliat is the reason that blundering Yorkshire squires, young 
dandies from Corfu regiments, J0II3' sailors from ships in the 
harbor, and 3'ellow old Indians returning from Bundelcund, 
should think proper to be enthusiastic about a country of which 
they know nothing ; the mere physical beauty of which they 
cannot, for the most part, comprehend ; and because certain 
characters lived in it two thousand four hundred years ago? 
Whnt have these people in common with Pericles, what have 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 329 

these ladies in common witti Aspasia (O fie) ? Of the race of 
Englishmen who come wondering about the tomb of Socrates, 
do 3011 think the majorit}' would not have voted to hemlock 
him ? Yes : for the very same superstition which leads men by 
the nose now, drove them onward in the days when the lowly 
husband of Xantippe died for daring to think simply and to 
speak the truth. I know of no quality more magnificent in fools 
than their faith : that perfect consciousness they have, that they 
are doing virtuous and meritorious actions, when they are per- 
forming acts of folly, murdering Socrates, or pelting Aristides 
with holy oyster-shells, all for Virtue's sake; and a "History 
of Dulness in all Ages of the World," is a book which a phi- 
losopher would surely be hanged, but as certainly blessed, for 
writing. 

If papa and mamma (honor be to them!) had not followed 
the faith of their fathers, andl-hought proper to send awa}' their 
only beloved son (afterwards to be celebrated under the name 
of Titmarsh) into ten 3'^ears' banishment of infernal miser}^, 
tyranny, annoyance ; to give over the fresh feelings of the 
heart of the little Michael Angelo to the discipline of vulgar 
bullies, who, in order to lead tender young children to the 
Temple of Learning (as the}' do in the spelUng-books), drive 
them on with clenched fists and low abuse ; if they fainted, 
revived them with a thump, or assailed them with a curse ; if 
they were miserable, consoled them with a brutal jeer, — if, I 
sa}', m3' dear parents, instead of giving me the inestimable 
benefit of a ten years' classical education, had kept me at home 
with my dear thirteen sisters, it is probable I should have liked 
this countr}^ of Attica, in sight of the blue shores of which the 
present pathetic letter is written ; but I was made so miserable 
in youth by a classical education, that all connected with it is 
disagreeable in my eyes ; and I have the same recollection 
of Greek in youth that I have of castor-oil. 

So in coming in sight of the promontory of Sunium, where 
the Greek muse, in an awful vision, came to me, and said in a 
patronizing way, " Whj^ my dear," (she always, the old spin- 
ster, adopts this high and mighty tone,) — "Why, my dear, 
are you not charmed to be in this famous neighborhood, in this 
land of poets and heroes, of whose histor}^ 3'our classical edu- 
cntion ought to have made you a master ; if it did not, you 
h.ive wofulty neglected your opportunities, and your deai; par- 
i nts have wasted their mone}' in sending you to school. I 
replied: " Madam, your company in youth was made so labo- 
riously disagreeable to me, that I can't at present reconcile 



330 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

myself to 3^011 in age. I read 3^0111 poets, but it was in fear 
and trembling ; and a cold sweat is but an ill accompaniment 
to poetry. I blundered through 3'our histories ; but liistor\^ is 
so dull (saving 3'Our presence) of herself, that when the brutal 
dulness of a schoolmaster is superadded to her own slow con- 
versation, the union becomes intolerable : hence I have not the 
slightest pleasure in renewing m3^ acquaintance with a lady who 
has been the source of so much bodily and mental discomfort 
to me." To make a long stor}' short, I am anxious to apolo- 
gize for a want of enthusiasm in the classical line, and to 
excuse an ignorance which is of the most undeniable sort. 

This is an improper frame of mind for a person visiting the 
land of j^schylus and Euripides ; add to which, we have been 
abominably overcharged at the inn : and what are the blue hills 
of Attica, the silver calm basin of f ir?eus, the heathery heights of 
Pentelicus, and yonder rocks crowned b3^ the Doric columns of 
the Parthenon, and the thin Ionic shafts of the Erechtheum, 
to a man who has had little rest, and is bitten all over by bugs ? 
Was Alcibiades bitten by bugs, I wonder ; and did the brutes 
crawl over him as he la3^ in the ros3^ arms of Phr3'ne? I wished 
all night for Socrates' hammock or basket, as it is described in 
the " Clouds ; " in which resting-place, no doubt, the abomi- 
nable animals kept perforce clear of him. 

A French man-of-war, lying in the silvery little harbor, 
sternly eying out of its stern port-holes a saucy little English 
corvette beside, began playing sounding marches as a crowd of 
boats came paddling up to the steamer's side to conve3' us 
travellers to shore. There were Russian schooners and Greek 
brigs lying in this little bay ; dumpy little windmills whirling 
round on the sunburnt heights round about it ; an improvised 
town of quays and marine taverns has sprung up on the shore ; 
a host of jingling barouches, more miserable than an3^ to be 
seen even in Germany, were collected at the landing-place ; 
and the Greek drivers (how queer they looked in skull-caps, 
shabb3' jackets with profuse embroider3^ of worsted, and end- 
less petticoats of dirty calico !) began, in a generous ardor for 
securing passengers, to abuse each other's horses and carriages 
in the regular London fashion. Satire could certainly hardly 
caricature the vehicle in which we were made to journey to 
Athens ; and it was onl3^ by thinking that, bad as they were, 
these coaches were much more comfortable contrivances than 
any Alcibiades or Cimon ever had, that we consoled ourselves 
along the road. It was flat for six miles along the plain to the 
city : and }' ou see for the greater part of the way the purple 




ATHENS 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 331 

mount on which the Acropolis rises, and the gleaming houses 
of the town spread beneath. Round this wide, j^ellow, barren 
plain, — a stunt district of olive-trees is almost the only vege- 
tation visible — there rises, as it were, a sort of chorus of the 
most beautiful mountains ; the most elegant, gracious, and 
noble the eye ever looked on. These hills did not appear at all 
lofty or terrible, but superbl}^ rich and aristocratic. The clouds 
were dancing round about them ; you could see their rosy, 
purple shadows sweeping round the clear, serene summits of 
the hill. To call a hill aristocratic seems affected or absurd ; 
but the difference between these hills and the others, is the 
difference between Newgate Prison and the " Travellers' Club," 
for instance : both are buildings ; but the one stern, dark, and 
coarse ; the other rich, elegant, and festive. At least, so I 
thought. With such a stately palace as munificent Nature had 
built for these people, what could they be themselves but lordly, 
beautiful, brilliant, brave, and wise? We saw four Greeks on 
donkeys on the road (which is a dust- whirlwind where it is not 
a puddle) ; and other four were playing with a dirty pack of 
cards, at a barrack that English poets have christened the 
" Half-way House." Does external nature and beauty in- 
fluence the soul to good? You go about Warwickshire, and 
fancy that from merely being born and wandering in those 
sweet sunny plains and fresh woodlands Shakspeare must have 
drunk in a portion of that frank, artless sense of beaut}' , which 
lies about his works like a bloom or dew ; but a Coventry 
ribbon-maker, or a slang Leamington squire, are looking on 
those very same landscapes too, and what do they profit? You 
theorize about the influence w^hich the climate and appearance 
of Attica must have had in ennobhng those who were born 
there ; j-^onder dirt}^, swindling, ragged blackguards, lolling 
over greasy cards three hours before noon, quarreUing and 
shrieking, armed to the teeth and afraid to fight, are bred out 
of the same land which begot the philosophers and heroes. 
But the " Half-way House" is past by this time, and behold ! 
we are in the capital of King Otho. 

I swear solemnly that I would rather have two hundred a 
year in Fleet Street, than be King of the Greeks, with Basileus 
w^^itten before my name round their beggarly coin ; with the 
bother of perpetual revolutions in my huge plaster-of-Paris 
palace, with no amusement but a drive in the afternoon over a 
wretched arid country, where roads are not made, with ambas- 
sadors (the deuce knows why, for what good can the English, 
or the French, or the Russian party get out of such a bankrupt 



332 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

alliance as this?) perpetuall}^ pulling and tugging at me, away 
from honest Germany, where there is beer and aesthetic con- 
versation, and operas at a small cost. The shabbiness of this 
place actuall}^ beats Ireland, and that is a strong word. The 
palace of the Basileus is an enormous edifice of plaster, in 
a square containing six houses, three donkej'S, no roads, no 
fountains (except in the picture of the inn) ; backwards it 
seems to look straight to the mountain — on one side is a 
beggarly garden — the King goes out to drive (revolutions 
permitting) at five — some four-and-twenty blackguards saun- 
ter up to the huge sandhill of a terrace, as his Majesty passes 
by in a gilt barouche and an absurd fancy dress ; the gilt 
barouche goes plunging down the sandhills : the two dozen 
soldiers, who have been presenting arms, slouch oflf to their 
quarters : the vast barrack of a palace remains entirely white, 
ghastty, and lonely : and, save the braying of a donkej- now 
and then, (which long-eared minstrels are more active and 
sonorous in Athens than in an}' place I know,) all is entirely 
silent round Basileus's palace. How could people who knew 
Leopold fancy he would be so ''jolly green " as to take such a 
berth? It was only a gobemouche of a Bavanan that could 
ever have been induced to accept it. 

I beseech you to believe that it was not the bill and the 
bugs at the inn which induced the writer hereof to speak so 
slightingl}" of the residence of Basileus. These evils are now 
cured and forgotten. This is written off the leaden flats and 
mounds which they call the Tread. It is stern justice alone 
which pronounces this excruciating sentence. It was a farce 
to make this place into a kingly capital ; and I make no 
manner of doubt that King Otho, the very day he can get 
away unperceived, and get together the passage-money, will 
be oflT for dear old Deutschland, Fatherland, Beerland ! 

I have never seen a town in England which may be com- 
pared to this ; for though Heme Bay is a ruin now, money was 
once spent upon it and houses built ; here, bej^ond a few score 
of mansions comfortably laid out, the town is little better than 
a rickety agglomeration of larger and smaller huts, tricked out 
here and there with the most absurd cracked ornaments and 
cheap attempts at elegance. But neatness is the elegance of 
poverty, and these people despise such a homely ornament. I 
have got a map with squares, fountains, theatres, public gai-- 
dens, and Places d'Othon marked out ; but they onl}' exist 
in the paper capital — the wretched tumble-down wooden one 
boasts of none. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 333 

One is obliged to come back to the old disagreeable com- 
parison of Ireland. Athens may be about as wealth}^ a place 
as Carlow or Killarne}', — the streets swarm with idle crowds, 
the innumerable little lanes flow over with dirty little children, 
they are playing and puddling about in the dirt everywhere, 
with great big eyes, 3'ellow faces, and the queerest little gowns 
and skull-caps. But in the outer man, the Greek has far the 
advantage of the Irishman : most of them are well and decentl}' 
dressed (if five-and-twenty yards of petticoat ma}- not be called 
decent, what may ?) they swagger to and fro with huge knives 
in their girdles. Almost all the men are handsome, but live 
hard, it is said, in order to decorate their backs with those fine 
clothes of theirs. I have seen but two or three handsome wo- 
men, and these had the great drawback which is common to 
the race — I mean, a sallow, greasy, coarse complexion, at 
which it was not advisable to look too closely. 

And on this score I think we English may pride ourselves 
on possessing an advantage (by we, I mean the lovely ladies to 
w^hom this is addressed with the most respectful compliments) 
over the most classical countr}' in the world. I don't care for 
beauty which will only bear to be looked at from a distance, 
like a scene in a theatre. What is the most beautiful nose in 
the world, if it be covered with a skin of the texture and color 
of coarse whity-brown paper ; and if Nature has made it as 
slippery and shining as though it had been anointed with 
pomatum? They may talk about beaut}', but would you wear 
a flower that had been dipped in a grease-pot ? No ; give me 
a fresh, dewy, healthy rose out of Somersetshire ; not one of 
those superb, tawdry, unwholesome exotics, which are only 
good to make poems about. Lord Byron wrote more cant of 
this sort than an}' poet I know of. Think of ' ' the peasant 
girls with dark blue eyes" of the Rhine — the brown-faced, 
flat-nosed, thick-lipped, dirty wenches ! Think of " filling high 
a cup of Samian wine ; " small beer is nectar compared to it, 
and B3Ton himself always drank gin. That man never wrote 
from his heart. He got up rapture and enthusiasm with an 
eye to the public ; but this is dangerous ground, even more 
dangerous than to look Athens full in the face, and say that 
3'our eyes are not dazzled b}' its beauty. The Great Public 
admires Greece and B^Ton ; the public knows best. Murra3^'s 
'' Guide-book " calls the latter '' our native bard." Our native 
bard ! Mon Dieu ! He Shakspeare's, Milton's, Keats's, Scott's 
native bard ! Well, woe be to the man who denies the public 
gods ! 



334 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

The truth is, then, that Athens is a disappointment ; and I 
am angry that it should be so. To a skilled antiquarian, or an 
enthusiastic Greek scholar, the feelings created by a sight of 
the place of course will be different ; but 3'ou who would be 
inspired by it must undergo a long preparation of reading, and 
possess, too, a particular feeling ; both of which, I suspect, are 
uncommon in our busy commercial newspaper-reading country. 
Men only say they are enthusiastic about the Greek and Roman 
authors and history, because it is considered proper and respect- 
able. And we know how gentlemen in Baker Street have edi- 
tions of the classics handsomely bound in the library, and how 
they use them. Of course they don't retire to read the news- 
paper ; it is to look over a favorite ode of Pindar, or to discuss 
an obscure passage in Athenaeus ! Of course countr}- magistrates 
and Members of Parliament are always studying Demosthenes 
and Cicero ; we know it from their continual habit of quoting 
the Latin grammar in Parliament. But it is agreed that the 
classics are respectable ; therefore we are to be enthusiastic 
about them. Also let us admit that Byron is to be held up as 
" our native bard." 

I am not so entire a heathen as to be insensible to the beauty 
of those relics of Greek art, of which men much more learned 
and enthusiastic have written such piles of descriptions. I 
thought I could recognize the towering beauty of the prodigious 
columns of the Temple of Jupiter ; and admire the astonishing 
grace, severity, elegance, completeness of the Parthenon. The 
little Temple of Victory, with its fluted Corinthian shafts, 
blazed under the sun almost as fresh as it must have appeared 
to the eyes of its founders ; I savr nothing more charming and 
brilliant, more graceful, festive, and aristocratic than this 
sumptuous little building. The Roman remains which lie in 
the town below look like the works of barbarians beside these 
perfect structures. They jar strangely on the eye, after it has 
been accustoming itself to perfect harmon}^ and proportions. 
If, as the schoolmaster tells us, the Greek writing is as complete 
as the Greek art ; if an ode of Pindar is as glittering and pure 
as the Temple of Victory ; or a discourse of Plato as poUshed 
and calm as yonder mystical portico of the Erechtheum ; what 
treasures of the senses and delights of the imagination have 
those lost to whom the Greek books are as good as sealed ! 

And yet one meets with very dull first-class men. Genius 
won't transplant from one brain to another, or is ruined in the 
carriage, like fine Burgundy. Sir Robert Peel and Sir John 
Hobhouse are both good scholars ; but their poetry in Parlia- 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 335 

ment does not strike one as fine. Muzzle, the schoolmaster, 
who is bullying poor trembling little boys, was a fine scholar 
when he was a sizar, and a ruffian then and ever since. Where 
is the great poet, since the days of Milton, who has improved 
the natural offshoots of his brain by grafting it from the Athe- 
nian tree ? 

I had a volume of Tennyson in my pocket, which somehow 
settled that question, and ended the querulous dispute between 
me and Conscience, under the shape of the neglected and irri- 
tated Greek muse, which had been going on ever since I had 
commenced my walk about Athens. The old spinster saw me 
wince at the idea of the author of Dora and Ulysses, and tried 
to follow up her advantage by further hints of time lost, and 
precious opportunities thrown away. " You might have writ- 
ten poems like them," said she ; "or, no, not Hke them perhaps, 
but you might have done a neat prize-poem, and pleased j^our 
papa and mamma. You might have translated Jack and Gill 
into Greek iambics, and been a credit to your college." I 
turned testily away from her. " Madam," says I, " because an 
eagle houses on a mountain, or soars to the sun, don't you be 
angr}^ with a sparrow that perches on a garret- window, or twit- 
ters on a twig. Leave me to myself; look, my beak is not 
aquiline by any means." 

And so, my dear friend, 3^ou who have been reading this 
last page in wonder, and who, instead of a description of 
Athens, have been accommodated with a lament on the part of 
the writer, that he was idle at school, and does not know Greek, 
excuse this momentary outbreak of egotistic despondency. To 
say truth, dear Jones, when one walks among the nests of the 
eagles, and sees the prodigious eggs they laid, a certain feeling 
of discomfiture must come over us smaller birds. You and I 
could not invent — it even stretches our minds painfully to try 
and comprehend part of the beauty of the Parthenon — ever so 
little of it, — the beaut}^ of a single column, — a fragment of a 
broken shaft Mng under the astonishing blue sky there, in the 
midst of that unrivalled landscape. There may be grander 
aspects of nature, but none more deliciously beautiful. The 
hills rise in perfect harmony, and fall in the most exquisite ca- 
dences, — the sea seems brighter, the islands more purple, the 
clouds more light and rosy than elsewhere. As 3'ou look up 
through the open roof, you are almost oppressed b}^ the serene 
depth of the blue overhead. Look even at the fragments of 
the marble, how soft and pure it is, glittering, and white like 
fresh snow! " I was all beautiful," it seems to say: "even 



336 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

the hidden parts of me were spotless, precious, and fair" — 
and so, musing over this wonderful scene, perhaps I get some 
feeble glimpse or idea of that ancient Greek spirit which peo- 
pled it with sublime races of heroes and gods ; * and which I 
never could get out of a Greek book, — no, not though Muzzle 
flung it at my head. 



CHAPTER VI. 

SMYRNA FIRST GLIMPSES OF THE EAST. 

I AM glad that the Turkish part of Athens was extinct, 
so that I should not be balked of the pleasure of entering 
an Eastern town by an introduction to any garbled or in- 
complete specimen of one. Smyrna seems to me the most 
Eastern of all I have "seen ; as Calais will probably remain to 
the Englishman the most French town in the world. The 
jack-boots of the postilions don't seem so huge elsewhere, or 
the tight stockings of the maid-servants so Gallic. The 
churches and the ramparts, and the little soldiers on them, 
remain for ever impressed upon your memory ; from which 
larger temples and buildings, and whole armies have subse- 
quently disappeared : and the first words of actual French 
heard spoken, and the first dinner at " Quillacq's," remain 
after twenty years as clear as on the first day. Dear Jones, 
can't you remember the exact smack of the white hermitage, 
and the toothless old fellow singing ' ' Largo al factotum " ? 

The first day in the East is like that. After that there is 
nothing. The wonder is gone, and the thrill of that delight- 
ful shock, which so seldom touches the nerves of plain men 
of the world, though the}^ seek for it everywhere. One such 
looked out at Sm^a-na from our steamer, and yawned without 
the least excitement, and did not betray the slightest emo- 
tion, as boats with real Turks on board came up to the ship. 
There la}^ the town with minarets and cypresses, domes and 

* Saint Paul, speaking from the Areopagus and rebuking these super- 
stitions away, yet speaks tenderly to the people before him, whose devo- 
tions he had marked ; quotes their poets, to bring them to think of the God 
unknown, whom they had ignorantly worshipped ; and says, that the times 
of this ignorance God winked at, but that now it was time to repent. No 
rebuke can surely be more gentle than this delivered by the upright Apos- 
tle. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 337 

castles ; great guns were firing oft', and the blood-red flag of 
the Sultan flaring over the fort ever since sunrise ; woods and 
mountains came down to the gulfs edge, and as you looked 
at them with the telescope, there peeped out of the general 
mass a score of pleasant episodes of ' Eastern life — there 
were cottages with quaint roofs ; silent cool kiosks, where the 
chief of the eunuchs brings down the ladies of the harem. 
1 saw Hassan, the fisherman, getting his nets ; and Ali Baba 
going off" with his donkey to the great forest for wood. 
Smith looked at these wonders quite unmoved ; and I was 
surprised at his apathy : but he had been at Sm3'rna be- 
fore. A man only sees the miracle once ; though you yearn 
after it ever so, it won't come again. I saw nothing of Ali 
Baba and Hassan the next time we came to Smyrna, and had 
some doubts (recollecting the badness of the inn) about land- 
ing at all. A person who wishes to understand France and 
the East should come in a yacht to Calais or Smyrna, land 
for two hours, and never afterwards go back again. 

But those two hours are beyond measure delightful. Some 
of us were querulous up to that time, and doubted of the 
wisdom of making the voyage. Lisbon, we owned, was a 
failure ; Athens a dead failure ; Malta very well, but not 
worth the trouble and sea-sickness : in fact, Baden-Baden or 
Devonshire would be a better move than this ; when Sm3Tna 
came, and rebuked all mutinous Cockneys into silence. Some 
men may read this who are in want of a sensation. If they 
love the odd and picturesque, if they loved the "Arabian 
Nights " in their youth, let them book themselves on board one 
of the Peninsular and Oriental vessels, and try one dip into 
Constantinople or Smyrna. Walk into the bazaar, and the 
East is unveiled to you ; how often and often have you tried 
to fancy this, lying out on a summer holiday at school ! It is 
wonderful, too, how like it is ; you may imagine that you have 
been in the place before, 3'ou seem to know it so well ! 

The beauty of that poetry is, to me, that it was never too 
liandsome ; there is no fatigue of sublimity about it. Shacabac 
and the little Barber play as great a part in it as the heroes ; 
there are no uncomfortable sensations of terror ; you ma^^ be 
familiar with the great Afreet, who was going to execute the 
travellers for killing his son with a date-stone. Morgiana, when 
she kills the fort}^ robbers with boiling oil, does not seem to 
hurt them in the least ; and though King Schahriar makes a 
practice of cutting off his wives' heads, yet 3'ou fancy they 
have got them on again in some of the back rooms of the pal- 



338 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

ace, where the}^ are dancing and playing on dulcimers. How 
fresh, eas}', good-natured, is all this ! How delightful is that 
notion of the pleasant Eastern people about knowledge, where 
the height of science is made to consist in the i.inswering of 
riddles ! and all the mathematicians and magicians bring their 
great beards to bear on a conundrum ! 

When I got into the bazaar, among this* race, somehow I felt 
as if the}^ were all friends. There sat the merchants in their 
little shops, quiet and solemn, but with friendly looks. There 
was no smoking, it was the Ramazan ; no eating, the fish and 
meats fizzing in the enormous pots of the cook-shops are onl}- 
for the Christians. The children abounded ; the law is not so 
stringent upon them, and many wandering merchants were 
there selling figs (in the name of the Prophet, doubtless), for 
their benefit, and elbowing onwards with baskets of grapes and 
cucumbers. Countr3'men passed bristling over with arms, each 
with a huge bellyful of pistols and daggers in his girdle ; 
fierce, but not the least dangerous. Wild swarthy Arabs, who 
had come in with the caravans, walked solemnly about, very 
difi'erent in look and demeanor from the sleek inhabitants of 
the town. Greeks and Jews squatted and smoked, their shops 
tended by sallow-faced boj's, with large eyes, who smiled and 
welcomed you in ; negroes bustled about in gaudy colors ; and 
women, with black nose-bags and shuffling j^ellow slippers, 
chattered and bargained at the doors of the little shops. There 
was the rope quarter and the sweetmeat quarter, and the pipe 
bazaar, and the arm bazaar, and the little turned-up shoe quar- 
ter, and the shops where ready-made jackets and pelisses were 
swinging, and the region where, under the ragged awnings, 
regiments of tailors were at work. The sun peeps through 
these awnings of mat or canvas, which are hung over the nar- 
row lanes of the bazaar, and ornaments them with a thousand 
freaks of light and shadow. Cogia Hassan Alhabbal's shop is 
in a blaze of light ; while his neighbor, the barber and coffee- 
house keeper, has his premises, his low seats and narghiles, his 
queer pots and basins, in the shade. The cobblers are always 
good-natured ; there was one, who, lam sure, has been revealed 
to me in my dreams, in a dirt}^ old green turban, with a pleas- 
ant wrinkled face like an apple, twinkling his little gray eyes 
as he held them up to talk to the gossips, and smiling under 
a delightful old gray beard, which did the heart good to see. 
You divine the conversation between him and the cucumber- 
man, as the Sultan used to understand the language of birds. 
Are any of those cucumbers stuffed with pearls, and is that 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 3:>0 

Armenian with the black square turban Haroun Ali'ascbid iii 
disguise, standing j'onder b}' the fountain where the childreti 
are drinking — the gleaming marble fountain, chequered all 
over witli light and shadow, and engraved with delicate Ara^ 
besques and sentences from the Koran ? 

But the greatest sensation of all is when the camels come. 
Whole strings of real camels, better even than in the proces- 
sion of Blue Beard, with soft rolling e3'es and bended necks, 
swaying from one side of the bazaar to the other to and fro, 
and treading gingerl}': with their great feet. O you fairy dreams 
of bo3iiood ! O 3'ou sweet meditations of half-holidays, here 
3'ou are realized for half an hour ! The genius which pre- 
sides over youth led us to do a good action that da}'. There 
was a man sitting in an open room, ornamented with fine 
long-tailed sentences of the Koran : some in red, some in blue ; 
some written diagonally over the paper ; some so shaped as to 
represent ships, dragons, or m^'sterious animals. The man 
squatted on a carpet in the middle of this room, with folded 
arms, waggling his head to and fro, swaying about, and sing- 
ing through his nose choice phrases from the sacred work. 
But from the room above came a clear noise of many little 
shouting voices, much more musical than that of Naso in the 
matted parlor, and the guide told us it was a school, so we went 
up stairs to look. 

I declare, on my conscience, the master was in the act of 
bastinadoing a little mulatto boy ; his feet were in a bar, and 
the brute was laying on with a cane ; so we witnessed the 
howling of the poor boy, and the confusion of the brute who 
was administering the correction. The other children were 
made to shout, I believe, to drown the noise of their little 
comrade's howling ; but the punishment was instantly discon- 
tinued as our hats came up over the stairtrap, and the boy cast 
loose, and the bamboo huddled into a corner, and the school- 
master stood before us abashed. All the small scholars in red 
cnps, and the little girls in gaudy handkerchiefs, turned their 
big wondering dark eyes towards us ; and the caning was over 
for that time, let us trust. I don't envy some schoolmasters in 
a future state. I pity that poor little blubbering Mahometan ; 
he will never be able to relish the ' ' Arabian Nights " in the 
original all his life long. 

From this scene we rushed off somewhat discomposed to 
make a breakfast off red mullets and grapes, melons, pome- 
granates, and Smyrna wine, at a dirty little comfortable inn, 
to which we were recommended : and from the windows of 



340 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

which we had a fine cheerful view of the gulf and its busy 
craft, and the loungers and merchants along the shore. There 
were camels unloading at one wharf, and piles of melons much 
bigger than the G-ibraltar cannon-balls at another. It was the 
fig-season, and we passed through several allej's encumbered with 
long rows of fig-dressers, children and women for the most 
part, who were packing the fruit diligentlj^ into drums, dipping 
them in salt-water first, and spreading them neatly over with 
leaves ; while the figs and leaves are drying, large white worms 
crawl out of them, and swarm over the decks of the ships which 
carry them to Europe and to England, where small children eat 
them with pleasure — I mean the figs, not the worms — and 
where the}- are still served at wine-parties at the Universities. 
When fresh they are not better than elsewhere ; but the melons 
are of admirable flavor, and so large, that Cinderella might 
almost be accommodated with a coach made of a big one, with- 
out an}^ very great distention of its original proportions. 

Our guide, an accomplished swindler, demanded two dollars 
as the fee for entering the mosque, which others of our party 
subsequently- saw for sixpence, so we did not care to examine 
that place of worship. But there were other cheaper sights, 
which were to the full as picturesque, for which there was no 
call to pay money, or, indeed, for a day, scarcely to move at 
all. I doubt whether a man who would smoke his pipe on a 
bazaar counter all day, and let the city flow b}' him, would not 
be almost as well emplo3^ed as the most active curiosity-hunter. 

To be sure he would not see the women. Those in the 
bazaar were shabby people for the most part, whose black 
masks nobodj^ would feel a curiosity to remove. You could 
see no more of their figures than if they had been stuffed in 
bolsters ; and even their feet were brought to a general spla}' 
uniformity by the double yellow slippers which the wives of true 
believers wear. But it is in the Greek and Armenian quarters, 
and among those poor Christians who were pulling figs, that 
you see the beauties ; and a man of a generous disposition ma}' 
lose his heart half a dozen times a day in Sm3'rna. There was 
the pretty maid at work at a tambour-frame in an open porch, 
with an old duenna spinning b}- her side, and a goat tied up to 
the railings of the little court-garden ; there was the nymph who 
came down the stair with the pitcher on her head, and gazed 
with great calm ej^es, as large and stately as Juno's ; there was 
the gentle mother, bending over a queer cradle, in which lay a 
small crjHng bundle of infanc}'. All these three charmers were 
seen in a single street in the Armenian quarter, where the 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 341 

iiouse-doors are all open, and the women of the families sit 
under the arches in the court. There was the fig-girl, beautiful 
beyond all others, with an immense coil of deep black hair 
twisted round a head of which Raphael was worthy to draw the 
outline, and Titian to paint the color. I wonder the Sultan has 
not swept her off, or that the Persian merchants, who come 
with silks and sweetmeats, have not kidnapped her for the 
Shah of Tehran. 

We went to see the Persian merchants at their khan, and 
purchased some silks there from a swarthy, black-bearded man, 
with a conical cap of lambswool. Is it not hard to think that 
silks bought of a man in a lambswool caj), in a caravanserai, 
brought hither on the backs of camels, should' have been manu- 
factured after all at Lj'ons ? Others of our party bought carpets, 
for which the town is famous ; and there was one who absolutely- 
laid in a stock of real Smj'rna figs ; and purchased three or four 
leal Smyrna sponges for his carriage ; so strong was his passion 
for the genuine article. 

I wonder that no painter has given us familiar views of the 
East : not processions, grand sultans, or magnificent landscapes ; 
but faithful transcripts of e^^er3'-day Oriental life, such as each 
street will supply to him. The camels afford endless motives, 
couched in the market-places, lying by thousands in the camel 
square, snorting and bubbling after their manner, the sun blaz- 
ing down on their backs, their slaves and keepers l^ing behind 
them in the shade : and the Caravan Bridge, above all, would 
afford a painter subjects for a dozen of pictures. Over this 
Roman arch, which crosses the Meles river, all the caravans 
pass on their entrance to the town. On one side, as we sat and 
looked at it, was a great row of plane-trees ; on the opposite 
bank, a deep wood of tall cypresses — in the midst of which 
rose up innumerable gray tombs, surmounted with the turbans 
of the defunct believers. Beside the stream, the view was less 
gloomy. There was under the plane-trees a little coffee-house, 
shaded by a trellis- work, covered over with a vine, and orna- 
mented with many rows of shining pots and water-pipes, for 
which there was no use at noonday now, in the time of Rama- 
zan. Hard by the coffee-house was a garden and a bubbling 
marble fountain, and over the stream was a broken summer- 
house, to which amateurs may ascend, for the purpose of exam- 
ining the river ; and all round the plane-trees plenty of stools 
for those who were inclined to sit and drink sweet thick coffee, 
or cool lemonade made of fresh green citrons. The master of 
the house, dressed in a white turban and light blue pelisse, 



342 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

lolled under the coffee-house awning ; the slave in white with a 
crimson striped jacket, his face as black as ebon}-, brought us 
pipes and lemonade again, and returned to his station at the 
coffee-house, where he curled his black legs together, and began 
singing out of his flat nose to the thrumming of a long guitar 
with wire strings. The instrument was not bigger than a soup- 
ladle, with a long straight handle, but its music pleased the 
performer ; for his eyes rolled shining about, and his head 
wagged, and he grinned with an innocent intensity of enjo}- 
ment that did one good to look at. And there was a friend to 
share his pleasure : a Turk dressed in scarlet, and covered all 
over with daggers and pistols, sat leaning forward on his little 
stool, rocking about, and grinning quite as eagerly as the black 
minstrel. As he sang and we listened, figures of women bear- 
ing pitchers went passing over the Roman bridge, which we saw 
between the large trunks of the planes ; or gra}^ forms of camels 
were seen stalking across it, the string preceded by the little 
donke3', who is alwa3's here their long-eared conductor. 

These are ver}^ humble incidents of travel. Wherever the 
steamboat touches the shore adventure retreats into the interior, 
and what is called romance vanishes. It won't bear the vulgar 
gaze ; or rather the light of common day puts it out, and it is 
only in the dark that it shines at all. There is no cursing and 
insulting of Giaours now. If a Cockne}' looks or behaves in a 
l^articularly ridiculous way, the little Turks come out and laugh 
at him. A Londoner is no longer a spittoon for true believers : 
and novv' that dark Hassan sits in his divan and drinks cham- 
pagne, and Selim has a French watch, and Zuleika perhaps 
takes Morrison's pills, B3a'onism becomes absurd instead of 
sublime, and is onh' a foolish expression of Cockney wonder. 
They still occasionall}' beat a man for going into a mosque, 
but this is almost the only sign of ferocious vitalit}^ left in the 
Turk of tlie Mediterranean coast, and strangers mav enter 
scores of mosques witliout molestation. The paddle-wheel is 
the great conqueror. Wherever the captain cries " Stop her ! " 
Civilization stops, and lands in the ship's boat, and makes a 
permanent acquaintance with the savages on shore. Whole 
hosts of crusaders have passed and died, and butchered here in 
vain. But to manufacture European iron into pikes and helmets 
was a waste of metal : in the shape of piston-rods and furnace- 
pokers it is irresistible ; and I think an allegor}^ might be made 
showing how much stronger commerce is than chivalry, and 
finishing with a grand image of Mahomet's crescent being ex- 
tini.7;uished in Fulton's boiler. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 343 

This I thought was the moral of the day's sights and ad- 
ventures. We pulled off to the steamer in the afternoon — the 
Inbat blowing fresh, and setting all the craft in the gulf dancing 
over its blue waters. We w^ere presenth' under weigh again, 
the captain ordering his engines to work onl}' at half power, so 
that a French steamer which was quitting Sn^yrna at the same 
time might come up with us, and fancy she could beat the irre- 
sistible " Tagus." Vain hope ! Just as the Frenchman neared 
us, the "Tagus" shot out like an arrow, and the discomfited 
Frenchman went behind. Though we all relished the joke ex- 
ceedingl}', there was a French gentleman on board who did not 
seem to be b}' any means tickled with it ; but he had received 
papers at Smyrna, containing news of Marshal Bugeaud's vic- 
tor}^ at Isley, and had this land victory to set against our harm- 
less little triumph at sea. 

That night we rounded the Island of Mit3'lene : and the next 
da}' the coast of Troy was in sight, and the tomb of Achilles — 
a dismal-looking mound that rises in a low, drear\', barren 
shore — less lively and not more picturesque than the Scheldt 
or the mouth of the Thames. Then we passed Tenedos and the 
forts and town at the mouth of the Dardanelles. The weather 
was not too hot, the water as smooth as at Putne}', and ever}- 
bod}' happ}' and excited at the thought of seeing Constanti- 
nople to-morrow. We had music on board all the wa}' from 
Sm3'rna. A German commis-voyageur, with a guitar, who had 
passed unnoticed until that time, produced his instrument about 
mid-da}', and began to whistle waltzes. He whistled so divinely 
that the ladies left their cabins, and men laid down their books. 
He whistled a polka so bewitchingl}' that two young Oxford 
men began whirling round the deck, and performed that popular 
dance with much agilit}^ until they sank down tired. He still 
continued an unabated whistling, and as nobody would dance, 
pulled off his coat, produced a pair of castanets, and whistling 
a mazurka, performed it with tremendous agihty. His whistling 
made everybody gay and happ}' — made those acquainted who 
had not spoken before, and inspired such a feeling of hilaritjr in 
the ship, that that night, as we floated over the sea of Marmora, 
a general vote was expressed for broiled bones and a regular 
supper-part}'. Punch was brewed, and speeches were made, 
and after a lapse of fifteen years, I heard the "Old English 
Gentleman" and "Bright Chanticleer Proclaims the Morn," 
sung in such style that you would almost fancy the proctors 
must hear, and send us all home. 



344 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

CHAPTER VII. 

CONSTANTINOPLE. 

When we rose at sunrise to see the famous entry to Con- 
stantinople, we found, in the place of the cit}^ and the sun, a 
bright white fog, which hid both from sight, and which only 
disappeared as the vessel advanced towards the Golden Horn. 
There the fog cleared off as it were by flakes, as you see gauze 
curtains lifted away, one by one, before a great fairy scene at 
the theatre. This will give idea enough of the fog ; the diffi- 
culty is to describe the scene afterwards, which was in truth the 
great fairy scene, than which it is impossible to conceive an}'- 
thing more brilliant and magnificent. I can't go to any more 
romantic place than Dnuy Lane to draw m}^ similes from — 
Drur}^ Lane, such as we used to see it in our 3-outh, when to 
our sight the grand last pictures of the melodrama or pantomime 
were as magnificent as any objects of nature we have seen with 
maturer ej^es. Well, the view of Constantinople is as fine as 
any of Stanfield's best theatrical pictures, seen at the best 
period of 3^outh, when fancy had all the bloom on her — when 
all the heroines who danced before the scene appeared as 
ravishing beauties, when there shone an unearthl}' splendor 
about Baker and Diddear — and the sound of the bugles 
and fiddles, and the cheerful clang of the cymbals, as the 
scene unrolled, and the gorgeous procession meandered tri- 
umphantly through it — caused a thrill of pleasure, and awak- 
ened an innocent fulness of sensual enjoyment that is onl}^ 
given to hoys. 

The above sentence contains the following propositions : — 
The enjoyments of boyish fancy are the most intense and de- 
licious in the world. Stanfield's panorama used to be the 
realization of the most intense youthful fancy. I puzzle my 
brains and find no better likeness for the place. The view of 
Constantinople resembles the ne plus ultra of a Stanfield dio- 
rama, with a glorious accompaniment of music, spangled 
houris, warriors, and winding processions, feasting the eyes 
and the soul with light, splendor, and harmony. If you were 
never in this way during your youth ravished at the play-house, 
of course the whole comparison is useless : and you have no 
idea, from this description, of the effect which Constantinople 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 345 

produces on the mind. But if you were never affected b}- a 
theatre, no words can work upon 3^our fanc}^, and t3"pographical 
attempts to move it are of no use. For, suppose we combine 
mosque, minaret, gold, C3^press, water, bkie, caiques, seventy- 
four, Galata, Tophana, Ramazan, BackaUum, and so forth, to- 
gether, in ever so man}^ ways, your imagination will never be 
able to depict a city out of them. Or, suppose I sa^- the 
Mosque of St. Sophia is four hundred and seventy-three feet in 
height, measuring from the middle nail of the gilt crescent sur- 
mounting the dome to the ring in the centre stone ; the circle 
of the dome is one hundred and twenty-three feet in diameter, 
the windows ninetj^-seven in number — and all this may be 
true, for anything I know to the contrar}^ : 3'et who is to 
get an idea of St. Sophia from dates, proper names, and 
calculations with a measuring-line? It can't be done by 
giving the age and measurement of all the buildings along 
the river, the names of all the boatmen who ply on it. Has 
your fancy, which pooh-poohs a simile, faith enough to 
build a city with a foot-rule? Enough said about descriptions 
and similes (though whenever I am uncertain of one I am 
naturall}' most anxious to fight for it) : it is a scene not perhaps 
sublime, but charmhig, magnificent, and cheerful be3'ond any I 
have ever seen — the most superb combination of cit3' and gar- 
dens, domes and shipping, hills and water, with the healthiest 
breeze blowing over it, and above it the brightest and most 
cheerful sky. 

It is proper, they sa3^, to be disappointed on entering the 
town, or an3^ of the various quarters of it, because the houses 
are not so magnificent on inspection, and seen singl3' as they are 
when beheld en masse from the waters. But why form expecta- 
tions so loft3' ? If 3'ou see a group of peasants picturesquely 
disposed at a fair, 3'ou don't suppose that they are all fault- 
less beauties, or that the men's coats have no rags, and the 
women's gowns are made of silk and velvet : the wild ugliness 
of the interior of Constantinople or Pera has a charm of its 
own, greatl3'' more amusing than rows of red bricks or drab 
stones, however symmetrical. With brick or stone they could 
never form those fantastic ornaments, railings, balconies, roofs, 
galleries, which jut in and out of the rugged houses of the cit3\ 
As we went from Galata to Pera up a steep hill, which new- 
comers ascend with some diflficulty, but which a porter, with a 
couple of hundredweight on his back, paces up without turning a 
hair, I thought the wooden houses far from being disagreeable 



346 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

objects, sights quite as surprising and striking as the grand one 
we had jnst left. 

I do not know how the custom-house of his Highness is 
made to be a profitable speculation. As I left the ship, a man 
pulled after my boat, and asked for backsheesh, which was 
given him to the amount of about twopence. He was a cus- 
tom-house officer, but I doubt whether this sum which he levied 
ever went to the revenue. 

I can fancy the scene about the quays somewhat to resemble 
the river of London in olden times, before coal-smoke had dark- 
ened the whole city with soot, and when, according to the old 
writers, there really was bright weather. The fleets of caiques 
bustling along the shore, or scudding over the blue water, are 
beautiful to look at: in Hollar's print London river is so 
studded over with wherry-boats, which bridges and steamers 
have since destroyed. Here the caique is still in full perfec- 
tion : there are thirty thousand boats of the kind plying be- 
tween the cities ; every boat is neat, and trimly carved and 
painted ; and I scarcely saw a man pulling in one of them that 
was not a fine specimen of his race, brawny and brown, with 
an open chest and a handsome face. They wear a thin shirt 
of exceedingly light cotton, which leaves their fine brown 
limbs full play ; an# with a purple sea for a background, 
everj^ one of these dashing boats forms a brilliant and glitter- 
ing picture. Passengers squat in the inside of the boat; so 
that as it passes you see little more than the heads of the true 
l>enevers, with their red fez and blue tassel, and that placid 
gravit}" of expression which the sucking of a tobacco-pipe is 
sure to give to a man. 

The Bosphorus is enlivened bj' a multiplicit}' of other kinds 
of craft. There are the dirty men-of-war's boats of the Rus- 
sians, with unwashed, mangy crews ; the great feny-boats 
carrjdng hundreds of passengers to the villages ; the melon- 
boats piled up with enormous golden fruit ; his Excellency the 
Pasha's boat, with twelve men bending to their oars ; and his 
Highness's own caique, with a head like a serpent, and eight- 
and-twenty tugging oarsmen, that goes shooting by amidst the 
thundering of the cannon. Ships and steamers, with black 
sides and flaunting colors, are moored ever3^where, showing 
their flags, Russian and English, Austrian, American, and 
Greek ; and along the quays countr}^ ships from the Black Sea 
or the islands, with high carved poops and bows, such as j'ou 
see in the pictures of the shipping of the seventeenth century. 
The vast groves andv towers, domes and quays, tall minarets 



FROM CORNHTLL TO CAIRO. 347 

and spired spreading mosques of the three cities, rise all 
around in endless magnificence and variet}', and render this 
water-street a scene of such delightful liveliness and beauty, 
that one never tires of looking at it. I lost a great number of 
the sights in and round Constantinople through the beauty of 
this admirable scene: but what are sights after all? and isn't 
that the best sight which makes 3'ou most happ}" ? 

We were lodged at Pera at " Misseri's Hotel," the host of 
which has been made famous ere this time b}^ the excellent 
book '^ Eothen," — a work for which all the passengers on 
board our ship had been battling, and which had charmed all 
— from our great statesman, our polished lawyer, our young 
Oxonian, who sighed over certain passages that he feared were 
wicked, down to the writer of this, who, after perusing it with 
delight, laid it down with wonder, exclaiming, " Aut Diabolus 
aut " — a book which has since (greatest miracle of all) excited 
a feehng of warmth and admiration in the bosom of the godlike, 
impartial, stony Athenaeum. Misseri, the faithful and chival- 
rous Tartar, is transformed into the most quiet and gentleman- 
like of landlords, a great deal more gentlemanlike in manner 
and appearance than most of us who sat at his table, and 
smoked cool pipes on his house-top, as we looked over the hill 
and the Russian palace to the water, and the Seraglio gardens 
shining in the blue. We confronted Misseri, "Eothen" in 
hand, and found, on examining him, that it was " aut Diabo- 
lus aut amicus" — but the name is a secret; I will never 
breathe it, though I am dying to tell it. 

The last good description of a Turkish bath, I think, was 
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's — which voluptuous picture 
must have been painted at least a hundred and thirty 3'ears 
ago : so that another sketch may be attempted b}^ a humbler 
artist in a different manner. The Turkish bath is certainly a 
novel sensation to an Englishman, and may be set down as a 
most queer and surprising event of his life. I made the valet- 
de-place or dragoman (it is rather a fine thing to have a drago- 
man in one's service) conduct me forthwith to the best appointed 
hummums in the neighborhood ; and we walked to a house at 
Tophana, and into a spacious hall lighted from above, which is 
the cooling-room of the bath. 

The spacious hall has a large fountain in the midst, a 
painted gallery running round it ; and many ropes stretched 
from one gallery to another, ornamented with profuse draperies 
of towels and blue cloths, for the use of the frequenters of the 
place. All round the room and the galleries were matted in- 



348 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

closures, fitted with numerous neat beds and cushions for re- 
posing on, where lay a dozen of true beUevers smoking, or 
sleeping, or in the happ}^ half-dozing state. I was led up to 
one of these beds, to rather a retired corner, in consideration 
of my modesty ; and to the next bed presently came a dancing 
dervish, who forthwith began to prepare for the bath. 

When the dancing dervish had taken off his yellow sugar- 
loaf cap, his gown, shawl, &c., he was arrayed in two large 
blue cloths ; a white one being thrown over his shoulders, and 
another in the shape of a turban plaited neatly round his head ; 
the garments of which he divested himself were folded up in 
another linen, and neatly put by. I beg leave to state I was 
treated in precisely the same manner as the dancing dervish. 

The reverend gentleman then put on a pair of wooden 
pattens, which elevated him about six inches from the ground ; 
and walked down the stairs, and paddled across the moist 
marble floor of the hall, and in at a little door, by the which 
also Titmarsh entered. But I had none of the professional 
agility of the dancing dervish ; I staggered about very ludi- 
crously upon the high wooden pattens ; and should have been 
down on my nose several times, had not the dragoman and the 
master of the bath supported me down stairs and across the 
hall. Dressed in three large cotton napkins, with a white 
turban round my head, I thought of Pall Mall with a sort of 
despair. I passed the little door, it was closed behind me — I 
was in the dark — I couldn't speak the language — in a white 
turban. Mon Dieu ! what was going to happen ! 

The dark room was the tepidarium, a moist oozing arched 
den, with a light faintl}^ streaming from an orifice in the domed 
ceiUng. Yells of frantic laughter and song came booming and 
clanging through the echoing arches, the doors clapped to witli 
loud reverberations. It was the laughter of the followers of 
Mahound, rollicking and taking their pleasure in the public 
bath. I could not go into that place : I swore I would not ; 
they promised me a private room, and the dragoman left me. 
My agony at parting from that Christian cannot be described. 

When you get into the sudarium, or hot room, your first 
sensations only occur about half a minute after entrance, when 
3^ou feel that you are choking. I found mj-self in that state, 
seated on a marble slab ; the bath man was gone ; he had taken 
away the cotton turban and shoulder shawl : I saw I was in a 
narrow room of marble, with a vaulted roof, and a fountain of 
warm and cold water ; the atmosphere was in a steam, the chok- 
ing sensation went off, and I felt a sort of pleasure presently in 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 349 

a soft boiling simmer, which, no doubt, potatoes feel when they 
are steaming. You are left in this state for about ten minutes ; 
it is warm certainly, but odd and pleasant, and disposes the 
mind to reverie. 

But let an}^ delicate mind in Baker Street fancy my horror, 
when, on looking up out of this reverie, I saw a great brown 
wretch extended before me, only half dressed, standing on 
pattens, and exaggerated by them and the steam until he 
looked like an ogre, grinning in the most horrible waj^, and 
waving his arm, on which was a horsehair glove. lie spoke, 
in his unknown nasal jargon, words which echoed through the 
arched room ; his eyes seemed astonishingly large and bright, 
his ears stuck out, and his head was all shaved, except a bris- 
tling top-knot, which gave it a demoniac fierceness. 

This description, I feel, is growing too frightful ; ladies who 
read it will be going into hysterics, or saying, " Well, upon my 
word, this is the most singular, the most extraordinary kind of 
language. Jane, my love, jou. will not read that odious book " 
— and so I will be brief. This grinning man belabors the 
patient violently with the horse brush. When he has com- 
pleted the horse-hair part, and 3'Ou lie expiring under a squirt- 
ing fountain of warm water, and fancying all is done, he 
reappears with a large brass basin containing a quantity ot 
lather, in the midst of which is something like old Miss Mac- 
Whirter's flaxen wig that she is so proud of, and that we have 
all laughed at. Just as you are going to remonstrate, the 
thing like the wig is dashed into j^our face and e3'es, covered 
over with soap, and for five minutes you are drowned in lather : 
you can't see, the suds are frothing over your eyeballs ; you 
can't hear, the soap is whizzing into j^our ears ; can't gasp for 
breath, Miss MacWhirter's wig is down your throat with half 
a pailful of suds in an instant — j'ou are all soap. Wicked 
children in former days have jeered 3^ou, exclaiming, ''How 
are you off for soap ? " You little knew what saponacity was 
till you entei'ed a Turkish bath. 

When the whole operation is concluded, you are led — with 
what heartfelt joy I need not say — softly l3ack to the cooling- 
room, having been robed in shawls and turbans as before. Y"ou 
are laid gently on the reposing bed ; somebody brings a nar- 
ghile, which tastes as tobacco must taste in Mahomet's Para- 
dise ; a cool sweet dream}^ languor takes possession of the 
purified frame ; and half an hour of such deUcious laziness is 
spent over the pipe as is unknown in Europe, where vulgar 
prejudice has most shamefully maligned indolence, calls it foul 



350 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

names, such as the father of all evil, and the like ; in fact, does 
not know how to educate idleness as those honest Turks do, and 
the fruit, which, when properl}" cultivated, it bears. 

The after-bath state is the most delightful condition of lazi- 
ness I ever knew, and I tried it wherever we went afterwards 
on our little tour. At Sm^'rna the whole business was much 
inferior to the method employed in the capital. At Cairo, after 
the soap, 3'ou are plunged into a sort of stone coffin, full of 
water, which is all but boiling. This has its charms ; but I 
could not relish the Egyptian shampooing. A hideous old 
blind man (but ver}^ dexterous in his art) tried to break my 
back and dislocate my shoulders, but I could not see the pleasure 
of the practice ; and another fellow began tickling the soles of 
my feet, but I rewarded him with a kick that sent him off the 
bench. The pure idleness is the best, and I shall never enjoy 
such in Europe again. 

Victor Hugo, in his famous travels on the Ehine, visiting 
Cologne, gives a learned account of what he didrCt see there. I 
have a remarkable catalogue of similar objects at Constantinople. 
I didn't see the dancing dervishes, it was Ramazan ; nor the 
howling dervishes at Scutari, it was Ramazan ; nor the interior 
of St. Sophia, nor the women's apartment of the Seraglio, nor 
the fashionable promenade at the Sweet Waters, always because 
it was Ramazan ; during which period the dervishes dance and 
howl but rarely, their legs and lungs being unequal to much ex- 
ertion during a fast of fourteen hours. On account of the same 
holy season, the ro^^al palaces and mosques are shut ; and 
though the valley of the Sweet Waters is there, no one goes 
to walk ; the people remaining asleep all day, and passing the 
night in feasting and carousing. The minarets are illuminated 
at this season ; even the humblest mosque at Jerusalem, or 
Jaffa, mounted a few circles of ding}^ lamps ; those of the capi- 
tal were handsomely lighted with many festoons of lamps, which 
had a fine effect from the water. I need not mention other and 
constant illuminations of tlie city which innumerable travellers 
have described — I mean the fires. There were three in Pera 
during our eight days' sta}' there ; but they did not last long 
enough to bring the Sultan out of bed to come and lend his aid. 
Mr. Hobhouse (quoted in the "Guide-book") says, if a fire 
lasts an hour, the Sultan is bound to attend it in person ; and 
that people having petitions to present, have often set houses 
on fire for the purpose of forcing out this royal trump. The 
Sultan can't lead a very "jolly life," if this rule be universal. 
Fancy his Highness, in the midst of his moon-faced beauties, 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 351 

handkerchief in hand, and obliged to tie it round his face, and 
go out of his warm harem at midnight at the cursed cry of 
" Yang en Yar ! " 

We saw his Highness in the midst of his people and their 
petitions, when he came to the mosque at Tophana ; not the 
largest, but one of the most picturesque of the public buildings 
of the city. The streets were crowded with people ^watching 
for the august arrival, and lined with the squat military in their 
bastard European costume ; the sturdy police, with bandeliers 
and brown surtouts, keeping order, driving off the faithful from 
the railings of the Esplanade through which their Emperor was 
to pass, and onl}^ admitting (with a yery unjust partialit}-, I 
thought) us Europeans into that reserved space. Before the 
august arrival, numerous officers collected, colonels and pashas 
went b}' with their attendant running footmen ; the most active, 
insolent, and hideous of these great men, as I thought, being 
his Highness' s black eunuchs, who went prancing through the 
crowd, which separated before them with every sign of respect. 

The common women were assembled b}" mau}^ hundreds : 
the yakmac, a muslin chin-cloth which they wear, makes almost 
every face look the same ;• but the eyes and noses of these 
beauties are generally visible, and, for the most part, both these 
features are good. The jolly negresses wear the same white 
veil, but they are by no means so particular about hiding the 
charms of their good-natured black faces, and they let the cloth 
blow about as it lists, and grin unconfined. Wherever we went 
the negroes seemed happy. They have the organ of child- 
loving ; little creatures were always prattling on their shoulders, 
queer little things in night-gowns of yellow dimity, with great 
flowers, and pink, or red, or 3^ellow shawls, with great ej^es glis- 
tening underneath. Of such the black women seemed alwa3^s 
the happy guardians. I saw one at a fountain, holding one 
child in her arms, and giving another a drink — a ragged little 
beggar — a sweet and touching picture of a black charity. 

I am almost forgetting his Highness the Sultan. About a 
hundred guns were fired off at clumsy intervals from the Espla- 
nade facing the Bosphorus, warning us that the monarch had 
setoff from his Summer Palace, and was on the waj' to his grand 
canoe. At last that vessel made its appearance ; the band 
struck up his favorite air ; his caparisoned horse was led down 
to the shore to receive him ; the eunuchs, fat pashas, colonels, 
and officers of state gathering round as the Commander of the 
Faithful mounted. I had the indescribable happiness of seeing 
him at a very short distance. The Padishah; or Father of all 



352 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

the Sovereigns on earth, has not that majestic air which some 
sovereigns possess, and which makes the beholder's eyes wink, 
and his knees tremble under him : he has a black beard, and 
a handsome well-bred face, of a French cast ; he looks like a 
3'onng French roue worn out b}' debauch ; his eyes bright, with 
black rings round them ; his cheeks pale and hollow. He was 
lolling on his horse as if he could hardly hold himself on the 
saddle : or as if his cloak, fastened with a blazing diamond clasp 
on his breast, and falling over his horse's tail, pulled him back. 
But the handsome sallow face of the Refuge of the World looked 
decidedly interesting and intellectual. I have seen many a 
young Don Juan at Paris, behind a counter, with such a beard 
and countenance ; the flame of passion still burning in his hol- 
low eyes, while on his damp brow was stamped the fatal mark 
of premature decay. The man we saw cannot live many sum- 
mers. Women and wine are said to have brought the Ziluliah 
to this state ; and it is whispered by the dragomans, or laquais- 
de-place, (from whom travellers at Constantinople generally 
get their political information,) that the Sultan's mother and 
his ministers conspire to keep him plunged in sensuality, that 
they may govern the kingdom accgrding to their own fancies. 
Mr. Urquhart, I am sure, thinks that Lord Palmerston has some- 
thing to do with the business, and drugs the Sultan's champagne 
for the benefit of Russia. 

As the Pontiff of Mussulmans passed into the mosque, a 
shower of petitions was flung from the steps where the crowd 
was collected, and over the heads of the gendarmes in brown. 
A general cry, as for justice, rose up ; and one old ragged wo- 
man came forward and burst through the throng, howling, and 
flinging about her lean arms, and baring her old shrunken 
breast. I never saw a finer action of tragic woe, or heard 
sounds more pitiful than those old passionate groans of hers. 
What was your prayer, poor old wretched soul ? The gendarmes 
hemmed her round, and hustled her away, but rather kindly. 
The Padishah went on quite impassible — the picture of debauch 
and ennui. 

I hke pointing morals, and inventing for myself cheap con- 
solations, to reconcile me to that state of life into which it has 
pleased heaven to call me ; and as the Light of the World dis- 
apjjeared round the corner, I reasoned pleasantly with myself 
about his Highness, and enjoyed that secret selfish satisfaction 
a man has, who sees he is better ofl[* than his neighbor. " Mi- 
chael Angelo," I said, "3'ouare still (by courtesy) young: if 
yon had five hundred thousand a year, and were a great prince, 




SUMMER PALACE, CONSTANTINOPLE. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 353 

I would lay a wager that men would discover in you a magnifi- 
cent courtesy of demeanor, and a majestic presence that only 
belongs to the sovereigns of the world. If you had such an 
income, you think you could spend it with splendor ! distributing 
genial hospitalities, kindl}' alms, soothing misery, bidding humil- 
ity be of good heart, rewarding desert. If you had such means 
of purchasing pleasure, you think, you rogue, you could relish 
it with gusto. But fancy being brought to the condition of the 
poor Light of the Universe yonder ; and reconcile yourself with 
the idea that you are only a farthing rushlight. The cries of 
the poor widow fall as dead upon him as the smiles of the 
brightest eyes out of Georgia. He can't stir abroad but those 
abominable cannon begin roaring and deafening his ears. He 
can't see the world but over the shoulders of a row of fat pashas, 
and eunuchs, with their infernal ugliness. His ears can never 
be regaled with a word of truth, or blessed with an honest laugh. 
The only privilege of manhood left to him, he enjo3''s but for a 
month in the year, at this time of Ramazan, when he is forced 
to fast for fifteen hours ; and, by consequence, has the blessing 
of feeling hungry." Sunset during Lent appears to be his sin- 
gle moment of pleasure ; they say the poor fellow is ravenous 
b}' that time, and as the gun fires the dish-covers are taken off, 
so that for five minutes a day he lives and is happy over pillau, 
like another mortal. 

And yet, when floating by the Summer Palace, a barbaric 
edifice of wood and marble, with gilded suns blazing over the 
porticos, and all sorts of strange ornaments and trophies 
figuring on the gates and raihngs — when we passed a long row 
of barred and filigreed windows, looking on the water — when 
we were told that those were the apartments of his Highness's 
ladies, and actually' heard them whispering and laughing behind 
the bars — a strange feeling of curiosity came oyer some ill-reg- 
ulated minds — just to have one peep, one look at all those won- 
drous beauties, singing to the dulcimers, paddhng in the 
fountains, dancing in the marble halls, or lolling on the golden 
cushions, as the gaudy black slaves brought pipes and coff'ee. 
This tumultuous movement was calmed by thinking of that dread- 
ful statement of travellers, that in one of the most elegant halls 
there is a trap-door, on peeping below which you ma}^ see the 
Bosphorus running underneath, into which some luckless beaut}' 
is plunged occasionall}', and the trap-door is shut, and the dan- 
cing and the singing, and the smoking and the laughing go on 
as before. They say it is death to pick up any of the sacks 
thereabouts, if a stray one should float b}- you. There were 

23 



354 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

none any day when I passed, at leasts on the surface of the 
water. 

It has been rather a fashion of our travellers to apologize for 
Turkish life, of late, and paint glowing, agreeable pictures of 
many of its institutions. The celebrated author of " Palm- 
Leaves" (his name is famous under the date-trees of the Nile, 
and uttered with respect beneath the tents of the Bedaween,) 
has touchingly described Ibrahim Pasha's paternal fondness, 
who cut off a black slave's head for having dropped and maimed 
one of his children ; and has penned a melodious panegyric of 
"The Harem," and of the fond and beautiful duties of the 
inmates of that place of love, obedience, and seclusion. I saw, 
at the mausoleum of the late Sultan Mahmoud's family, a good 
subject for a Ghazul, in the true new Oriental mauner. 

These royal burial-places are the resort of the pious Moslems. 
Lamps are kept burning there ; and in the ante-chambers, copies 
of the Koran are provided for the use of believers ; and you 
never pass tliese cemeteries but you see Turks washing at the 
cisterns, previous to entering for pra^^er, or squatted on the 
benches, chanting passages from the sacred volume. Chris- 
tians, I believe, are not admitted, but may look through the 
bars, and see the coffins of the defunct monarchs and children 
of the royal race. Each lies in his narrow sarcophagus, which 
is commonly flanked b}^ huge candles, and covered with a rich 
embroidered pall. At the head of each coffin rises a slab, with 
a gilded inscription ; for the princesses, the slab is simple, not 
unlike our own monumental stones. The head-stones of the 
tombs of the defunct princes are decorated with a turban, or, 
since the introduction of the latter article of dress, with the 
red fez. That of Mahmoud is decorated with the imperial 
aigrette. 

In this dismal but splendid museum, I remarked two little 
tombs with little red fezzes, very small, and for very young 
heads evidently, which were lying under the little embroidered 
palls of state. I forget whether they had candles too ; but 
their little flame of life was soon extinguished, and there was 
no need of many pounds of wax to t3^pify it. These were the 
tombs of Mahmoud's grandsons, nephews of the present Light 
of the Universe, and children of his sistei% the wife of Halil 
Pacha. Little children die in all ways ; these of the much- 
maligned Mahometan royal race perished by the bowstring. 
Sultan Mahmoud (may he rest in glory !) strangled the one ; 
but, having some spark of human feeling, was so moved by the 
wretchedness and agony of the poor bereaved mother, his 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 355 

daughter, that his royal heart relented towards her, and he 
promised that, should she ever have another child, it should be 
allowed to live. He died ; and Abdul Medjid (may his name 
be blessed!) the debauched young man whom we just saw 
riding to the mosque, succeeded. His sister, whom he is said 
to have loved, became again a mother, and had a son. But 
she relied upon her father's word and her august brother's 
love, and hoped that this little one should be spared. The 
same accursed hand tore this infant out of its mother's bosom, 
and killed it. The poor woman's heart broke outright at this 
second calamitj-, and she died. But on her death-bed she sent 
for her brother, rebuked him as a perjurer and an assassin, and 
expired calling down the divine justice on his head. She lies 
now b}' the side of the two little fezzes. 

Now I sa}' this would be a fine subject for an Oriental poem. 
The details are dramatic and noble, and could be grandly 
touched bj' a fine artist. If the mother had borne a daughter, 
the child would have been safe ; that perplexit}' might be 
pathetically depicted as agitating the bosom of the young wife, 
about to become a mother. A son is born : 3^ou can see her 
despair and the pitiful looks she casts on the child, and the way 
in which she hugs it every time the curtains of her door are 
removed. The Sultan hesitated probably ; he allowed the 
infant to live for six weeks. He could not bring his royal soul 
to inflict pain. He yields at last ; he is a martyr — to be pitied, 
not to be blamed. If he melts at his daughter's agon}^ he is a 
man and a father. There are men and fathers too in the much- 
maligned Orient. 

Then comes the second act of the tragedy. The new hopes, 
the fond yearnings, the terrified misgivings, the timid belief, 
and weak confidence ; the child that is born — and dies smiling 
prettil}' — and the mother's heart is rent so, that it can love, or 
hope, or suffer no more. Allah is God ! She sleeps by the 
little fezzes. Hark ! the guns are booming over the water, and 
his Highness is coming from his prayers. 

After the murder of that little child, it seems to me one can 
never look with anything but horror upon the butcherlj^ Herod 
who ordered it. The death of the seventy thousand Janissaries 
ascends to historic dignit}', and takes rank as war. But a great 
Prince and Light of the Universe, who procures abortions and 
throttles little babies, dwindles awa}^ into such a frightful insig- 
nificance of crime, that those ma}- respect him who will. I pity 
their Excellencies the Ambassadors, who are obliged to smirk 
and cringe to such a rascal. To do the Turks justice — and twc 



356 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

da3^s' walk in Constantinople will settle this fact as well as a 
3'ear's residence in the cit}- — the people do not seem in the 
least animated by this Herodian spirit. I never saw more 
kindness to children than among all classes, more fathers walk- 
ing about with little solemn Mahometans in red caps and big 
trousers, more business going on than in the toy quarter, and in 
the Atmeidan. Although you may see there the Thebaic stone 
set up by the Emperor Theodosius, and the bronze column of 
serpents which Murray saj^s was brought from Delphi, but 
which m}^ guide informed me was the ver}-^ one exhibited by 
Moses in the wilderness, jet I found the examination of these 
antiquities much less pleasant than to look at the many troops 
of children assembled on the plain to play ; and to watch them 
as they were dragged about in little queer arobas, or painted 
carriages, which are there kept for hire. I have a picture of 
one of them now in my e3'esj a little green oval machine, with 
flowers rudel}' painted round the window, out of which two 
smiling heads are peeping, the pictures of happiness. An old, 
good-humored, gray-bearded Turk is tugging the cart ; and 
behind it walks a lady in a yakmac and yellow slippers, and a 
black female slave, grinning as usual, towards whom the little 
coach-riders are looking. A small, sturdy, barefooted Mussul- 
man is examining the cart with some feelings of envy : he is too 
poor to purchase a ride for himself and the round-faced pupp}'- 
dog, which he is hugging in his arms as young ladies in our 
countrj^ do dolls. 

All the neighborhood of the Atmeidan is exceedingly pictur- 
esque — the mosque court and cloister, where the Persians have 
their stalls of sweetmeats and tobacco ; a superb sycamore-trefe 
grows in the middle of this, overshadowing an aromatic foun- 
tain ; great flocks of pigeons are settling in corners of the 
cloister, and barley is sold at the gates, with which the good- 
natured people feed them. From the Atmeidan 3'ou have a fine 
view of St. Sophia : and here stands a mosque which struck me 
as being much more picturesque and sumptuous — the Mosque 
of Sultan Achmed, with its six gleaming white minarets and 
its beautiful courts and trees. An3^ infidels may enter the court 
without molestation, and, looking through the barred windows 
of the mosque, have a view of its airy and spacious interior. 
A small audience of women was collected there when I looked 
in, squatted on the mats, and listening to a preacher, who was 
walking among them, and speaking with great energy. My 
dragoman interpreted to me the sense of a few words of his 
sermon : he was warning them of the danger of gadding about 



FROM CORXHILL TO CAIRO. 357 

to public places, and of the imraoralitj^ of too much talking ; 
and, I dare saj^, we might have had more valuable information 
from him regarding the follies of womankind, had not a tall 
Turk clapped my interpreter on the shoulder, and pointed him 
to be off. 

Although the ladies are veiled, and muffled with the ugliest 
dresses in the world, yet it appears their modest}' is alarmed 
in spite of all the coverings which the}' wear. One da}^ in the 
bazaar, a fat old body, with diamond rings on her fingers, that 
were tinged with henne of a logwood color, came to the shop 
where I was purchasing slippers, with her son, a young Aga of 
six years of age, dressed in a braided frock-coat, with a huge 
tassel to his fez, exceeding fat, and of a most solemn demeanor. 
The young Aga came for a pair of shoes, and his contortions 
were so delightful as he tried them, that I remained looking on 
with great pleasure, wishing for Leech to be at hand to sketch 
his lordship and his fat mamma, who sat on the counter. That 
lady fancied I was looking at her, though, as far as I could see, 
she had the figure and complexion of a rolj^-poly pudding ; and 
so, with quite a premature bashfulness, she sent me a message 
by the shoemaker, ordering me to walk away if I had made 
my purchases, for that ladies of her rank did not choose to be 
stared at by strangers ; and I was obliged to take my leave, 
though with sincere regret, for the little lord had just squeezed 
himself into an attitude than which I never saw anything more 
ludicrous in General Tom Thumb. When the ladies of the 
Seraglio come to that bazaar with their cortege of infernal black 
eunuchs, strangers are told to move on briskly. I saw a bevy 
of about eight of these, with their aides-de-camp ; but they were 
wrapped up, and looked just as vulgar and \\g\y as the other 
women, and were not, 1 suppose, of the most beautiful sort. 
The poor devils are allowed to come out, half a dozen times in 
the year, to spend their little wretched allowance of pocket- 
money in purchasing trinkets and tobacco ; all the rest of the 
time the}^ pursue the beautiful duties of their existence in the 
walls of the sacred harem. 

Though strangers are not allowed to see the interior of the 
cage in which these birds of Paradise are confined, 3^et many 
parts of the Seraglio are free to the curiosity of visitors, who 
choose to drop a backsheesh here and there. I landed one 
morning at the Seraglio point from Galata, close by an ancient 
pleasure-house of the defunct Sultan ; a vast broad-brimmed 
pavilion, that looks agreeable enough to be a dancing-room for 
ghosts now : there is another summer-house, the Guide-book 



358 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

. cheerfull}' sa3'S, whither the Sultan goes to sport with his women 
and mutes. A regiment of infantr}', with their music at their 
head, were marching to exercise in the outer grounds of the 
Seraglio; and we followed them, and had an opportunity of 
seeing their evolutions, and hearing their bands, upon a fine 
green plain under the Seraglio walls, where stands one solitary 
column, erected in memory of some triumph of some Byzantian 
emperor. 

There were three battalions of the Turkish infantr}- exer- 
cising here ; and they seemed to perform their evolutions in a 
very satisfactory^ manner : that is, they fired all together, and 
charged and halted in very straight lines, and bit off imaginary 
cartridge-tops with great fierceness and regularity, and made 
all their ramrods ring to measure, just like so many Christians. 
The men looked small, 3'oung, clumsy, and ill-built ; uncom- 
fortable in their shabby European clothes ; and about the legs, 
2specially, seemed exceedingly weak and ill-formed. Some 
score of military invalids were lolling in the sunshine, about a 
fountain and a marble summer-house that stand on the ground, 
watching their comrades' manoeuvres (as if they could never 
have enough of that delightful pastime) ; and these sick were 
much better cared for than their healthy companions. Each 
man had two dressing-gowns, one of white cotton, and an outer 
wrapper of warm brown woollen. Their heads were accom- 
modated with wadded cotton nightcaps ; and it seemed to me, 
from their condition and from the excellent character of the 
military hospitals, that it would be much more wholesome to be 
ill than to be well in the Turkish service. 

Facing this green esplanade, and the Bosphorus shining 
beyond it, rise the great walls of the outer Seraglio Gardens : 
huge masses of ancient masonry, over which peep the roofs of 
numerous kiosks and outhouses, amongst thick evergreens, 
planted so as to hide the beautiful frequenters of the place from 
the pr3ing eyes and telescopes. We could not catch a glance 
of a single figure moving in these great pleasure-grounds. The 
road winds round the walls ; and the outer park, which is like- 
wise planted with trees, and diversified by garden-plots and 
cottages, had more the air of the outbuildings of a homely 
English park, than of a palace which we must all have imagined 
to be the most stately in the world. The most commonplace 
water-carts were passing here and there ; roads were being 
repaired in the Macadamite manner ; and carpenters were 
mending the park-palings, just as the}^ do in Hampshire. The 
next thing you might fancy would be the Sultan walking out 



FROM CORXHILL TO CAIRO. 359 

with a spud and a couple of dogs, on the way to meet the post- 
bag and the Saint James's Chronicle. 

The palace is no palace at all. It is a great town of pa- 
vilions, built without order, here and there, according to the 
fancy of succeeding Lights of the Universe, or their favorites. 
The only row of domes which looked particularly regular or 
stately, were the kitchens. As you examined the buildings 
they had a ruinous, dilapidated look : they are not furnished, it 
is said, with particular splendor, — not a bit more elegantly 
than Miss Jones's seminary for young ladies, which we may be 
sure is much more comfortable than the extensive establishment 
of his Highness Abdul Medjid. 

In the little stable I thought to see some marks of royal 
magnificence, and some horses worthy of the king of all kings. 
But the Sultan is said to be a very timid horseman ; the animal 
that is always kept saddled for him did not look to be worth 
twent}^ pounds ; and the rest of the horses in the shabb}^, dirty 
stalls, were small, ill-kept, common-looking brutes. You might 
see better, it seemed to me, at a country inn stable on any 
market-day. 

The kitchens are the most sublime part of the Seraglio. 
There are nine of these great halls, for all ranks, from his 
Highness downwards, where many hecatombs are roasted daity, 
according to the accounts, and where cooking goes on with a 
savage Homeric grandeur. Chimneys are despised in these 
primitive halls ; so that the roofs are black with the smoke of 
hundreds of furnaces, which escapes through apertures in the 
domes above. These, too, give the chief light in the rooms, 
which streams downwards, and thickens and mingles with the 
smoke, and so murkily lights up hundreds of swarth}' figures 
bus}^ about the spits and the caldrons. Close to the door by 
which we entered they were making pastry for the sultanas ; 
and the chief pastr3'-cook, who knew my guide, invited us 
courteous^ to see the process, and partake of the delicacies 
prepared for those charming lips. How those sweet lips must 
shine after eating these puff's ! First, huge sheets of dough 
are rolled out till the paste is about as thin as silver paper : 
then an artist forms the dough-muslin into a sort of draper}^, 
curling it round and round in many fiinciful and prett}^ shapes, 
until it is all got into the circumference of a round metal tray 
in which it is baked. Then the cake is drenched in grease 
most profusely ; and, finally, a quantit}^ of S3'rup is poured over 
it, when the delectable mixture is complete. The moon-faced 
ones are said to devour immense quantities of this wholesome 



360 EASTERN SKETCHES.. 

food ; and, in fact, are eating grease and sweetmeats from 
morning till night. I don't like to think what the consequences 
may be, or allude to the agonies which the delicate creatures 
must inevitabl}' suffer. 

The ^ood-natured chief pastr^^-cook filled a copper basin with 
greasj' puffs ; and, dipping a dubious ladle into a large caldron, 
containing several gallons of sj'rup, poured a liberal portion 
over the cakes, and invited us to eat. One of the tarts was 
quite enough for me : and I excused myself on the plea of ill- 
health from imbibing any more grease and sugar. But my 
companion, the dragoman, finished some forty puffs in a 
twinkling. The}^ slipped down his opened jaws as the sausages 
do down clowns' throats in a pantomime. His moustaches 
shone with grease, and it dripped down his beard and fingers. 
We thanked the smiling chief pastry-cook, and rewarded him 
handsomel}^ for the tarts. It is something to have eaten of the 
dainties prepared for the ladies of the harem ; but I think Mr. 
Cockle ought to get the names of the chief sultanas among the 
exalted patrons of his antibilious pills. 

From the kitchens we passed into the second court of the 
Seraglio, be^'ond which is death. The Guide-book only hints 
at the dangers which would befall a stranger caught pr3'ing in 
the mj^sterious first court of the palace. I have read " Blue- 
beard," and don't care for peeping into forbidden doors ; so 
that the second court was quite enough for me ; the pleasure of 
beholding it being heightened, as it were, by the notion of the 
invisible danger sitting next door, with uphfted scimitar read3^ 
to fall on 3^ou — present though not seen. 

A cloister runs along one side of this court ; opposite is the 
hall of the divan, " large but low, covered with lead, and gilt, 
after the Moorish manner, plain enough." The Grand Vizier 
sits in this place, and the ambassadors used to wait here, and 
be conducted hence on horseback, attired with robes of honor. 
But the ceremon}^ is now, I believe, discontinued ; the English 
envoy, at any rate, is not allowed to receive any backsheesh, 
and goes away as he came, in the habit of his own nation. On 
the right is a door leading into the interior of the Seraglio ; none 
pass through it but such as are sent for^ the Guide-book sa3"S : it 
is impossible to top the terror of that description. 

About this door lads and servants were lolling, ichoglans 
and pages, with laz}- looks and shabby dresses ; and among 
them, sunning himself sulkily on a bench, a poor old fat, 
wrinkled, dismal white eunuch, with little fat white hands, and 
a great head sunk into his chest, and two sprawling little legs 



J 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 361 

that seemed incapable to hold up his bloated old body. He 
squeaked out some surl}' reply to my friend the dragoman, 
who, softened and sweetened by the tarts he had just been 
devouring, was, no doubt, anxious to be polite : and the poor 
worthy fellow walked away rather crestfallen at this return of 
his salutation, and hastened me out of the place. 

Tiie palace of the Seraglio, the cloister with marble pillars, 
the hail of the ambassadors, the impenetrable gate guarded bj^ 
eunuchs and ichoglans, have a romantic look in print; but not 
so in reality. Most of the marble is wood, almost all the 
gilding is faded, the guards are shabby, the foolish perspectives 
painted on the walls are half cracked off. The place looks like 
Vauxhall in the daytime. 

We passed out of the second court under The Sublime 
Porte — which is like a fortified gate of a German town of the 
middle ages — into the outer court, round which are public 
offices, hospitals, and dwelhngs of the multifarious servants of 
the palace. This place is very wide and picturesque : there is 
a prett}' church of Byzantine architecture at the further end ; 
and in the midst of the court a magnificent plane-tree, of pro- 
digious dimensions and fabulous age according to the guides ; 
St. Sophia towers in the further distance : and from here, per- 
haps, is the best view of its fight swelling domes and beautiful 
proportions. The Porte itself, too, forms an excellent subject 
for the sketcher, if the officers of the court will permit him to 
design it. I made the attempt, and a couple of Turkish beadles 
looked on ver}' good-naturedly for some time at the progress of 
the drawing ; but a good number of other spectators speedil}^ 
joined them, and made a crowd, which is not permitted, it 
would seem, in the Seraglio ; so I was told to pack up my port- 
folio, and remove the cause of the disturbance, and lost my 
drawing of the Ottoman Porte. 

I don't think I have an3'thing more to sa}' about the city 
which has not been much better told by graver travellers. I, 
with them, could see (perhaps it was the preaching of the 
politicians that warned me of the fact) that we are looking on 
at the last da3's of an empire ; and heard many stories of 
weakness, disorder, and oppression. I even saw a Turkish 
lad}' drive up to Sultan Achmet's mosque in a brougham. Is 
not that a subject to moralize upon ? And might one not draw 
endless conclusions from it, that the knell of the Turkish do- 
minion is rung ; that the European spirit and institutions once 
admitted can never be rooted out again ; and that the scep- 
ticism prevalent amongst the higher orders must descend ere 



362 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

very long to the lower ; and the cr}' of the muezzin from the 
mosque become a mere ceremon}' ? 

But as I onl}' sta3^ed eight da3's in this place, and knew not 
a syllable of the language, perhaps it is as well to pretermit 
any disquisitions about the spirit of the people. I can only 
say that they looked to be very good-natured, handsome and 
lazy ; that the women's yellow slippers are very ugl}' ; that the 
kabobs at the shop hard by the Rope Bazaar are verj' hot and 
good ; and that at the Armenian cook-shops they serve you 
delicious fish, and a stout raisin wine of no small merit. 
There came in, as we sat and dined there at sunset, a good 
old Turk, who called for a penny fish, and sat down under a 
tree very humbly, and ate it with his own bread. We made 
that jolly old Mussulman happy with a quart of the raisin wine ; 
and his eyes twinkled with every fresh glass, and he wiped his 
old beard delighted, and talked and chirped a good deal, and, I 
dare say, told us the whole state of the empire. He was the 
only Mussulman with whom I attained an^- degree of intimac}^ 
during m}^ stay in Constantinople ; and you will see that, for 
obvious reasons, I cannot divulge the particulars of our con- 
versation. 

" You have nothing to say, and you own it," says somebody : 
"then why write?" That question perhaps (between our- 
selves) 1 have put likewise ; and yet, m}' dear sir, there are some 
things worth remembering even in this brief letter : that woman 
in the brougham is an idea of significance : that comparison of 
the Seraglio to Vauxhall in the daytime is a true and real one ; 
from both of which your own great soul and ingenious philo- 
sophic spirit may draw conclusions, that I m3'self have modestly 
forborne to press. You are too clever to require a moral to be 
tacked to all the fables 3^ou read, as is done for children in the 
spelling-books ; else I would tell 3'ou that the government of 
the Ottoman Porte seems to be as rotten, as wrinkled, and as 
feeble as the old eunuch I saw crawhng about it in the sun ; 
that when the lady drove up in a brougham to Sultan Achmet, I 
felt that the schoolmaster was reall3' abroad ; and that the cres- 
cent will go out before that luminarj^, as meekl3^ as the moon 
does before the sun. 




HARBOR OF RHODES. 



FKOM COKKHILL TO CAIRO. 363 

CHAPTER VIII. 

RHODES. 

The sailing of a vessel direct for Jaffa brought a great num- 
ber of passengers together, and our decks were covered with 
Christian, Jew, and Heathen. In the cabin we were Poles and 
Russians, Frenchmen, Germans, Spaniards, and Greeks ; on 
the deck were squatted several little colonies of people of dif- 
ferent race and persuasion. There was a Greek Papa, a noble 
figure with a flowing and venerable white beard, who had been 
living on bread-and-water for I don't know how many 3^ears, in 
order to save a little money to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem. 
There were several families of Jewish Rabbis, who celebrated 
their '•' feast of tabernacles " on board ; their chief men perform- 
ing worship twice or thrice a day, dressed in their pontifical 
habits, and bound with phylacteries ; and there were Turks, who 
had their own ceremonies and usages, and wiselj^ kept aloof 
fi'om their neighbors of Israel. 

The dirt of these children of captivit}^ exceeds all possibility 
of description ; the profusion of stinks which the}^ raised, the 
grease of their venerable garments and faces, the horrible messes 
cooked in the filth}' pots, and devoured with the nast^' fingers, 
the squalor of mats, pots, old bedding, and foul carpets of our 
Hebrew friends, could hardl}' be painted b}^ Swift, in his dirti- 
est mood, and cannot be, of course, attempted by my timid and 
genteel pen. What would the}' sa}^ in Baker Street to some 
sights with which our new friends favored us? What would 
3'our ladj'ship have said if you had seen the interesting Greek 
nun combing her hair over the cabin — combing it with the nat- 
ural fingers, and, averse to slaughter, flinging the delicate little 
intruders, which she found in the course of her investigation, 
gently into the great cabin? Our attention was a good deal 
occupied in watching the strange ways and customs of the va- 
rious comrades of ours. 

The Jews were refugees from Poland, going to lay their bones 
to rest in the valley of Jehoshaphat, and performing with ex- 
ceeding rigor the oflfices of their religion. At morning and 
evening you were sure to see the chiefs of the families, arrajed 
in white robes, bowing over their books, at prayer. Once a 
week, on the eve before the Sabbath, there was a general 



364 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

washing in Jewry, which sufficed until the ensuing Frida3^ 
The men wore long gowns, and caps of fur, or else broad- 
brimmed hats, or, in service-time, bound on their heads little 
iron boxes, with the sacred name engraved on them. Among 
the lads there were some beautiful faces ; and among the wo- 
men your humble servant discovered one who was a perfect rose- 
bud of beauty when first emerging from her Friday's toilette, 
and for a day or two afterwards, until each succeeding day's 
smut darkened those fresh and delicate cheeks of hers. We 
had some very rough weather in the course of the passage 
from Constantinople to Jaffa, and the sea washed over and 
over our Israelitish friends and their baggages and bundles ; 
but though they were said to be rich, they would not afford to 
pay for cabin shelter. One father of a family, finding his pro- 
geny half drowned in a squall, vowed he ivould pay for a cabin ; 
but the weather was somewhat finer the next day, and he could 
not squeeze out his dollars, and the ship's authorities would not 
admit him except upon payment. 

This unwillingness to part with money is not only found 
amongst the followers of Moses, but in those of Mahomet, and 
Christians too. When we went to purchase in the bazaars, 
after offering money for change, the honest fellows would fre- 
quently keep back several piastres, and when urged to refund, 
would give most dismally : and begin doling out penny by 
penu}', and utter pathetic prayers to their customer not to take 
any more. I bought five or six pounds' worth of Broussa silks 
for the womenkind, in the bazaar at Constantinople, and the 
rich Armenian who sold them begged for three-halfpence to 
pay his boat to Galata. There is something naif and amus- 
ing in this exhibition of cheater}' — this simple cringing, and 
wheedling, and passion for twopence-halfpenny. It was pleas- 
ant to give a millionnaire beggar an alms, and laugh in his face 
and say, "There, Dives, there's a penny for 3'ou : be happ3% 
you poor old swindhng scoundrel, as far as a penny goes." I 
used to watch these Jews on shore, and making bargains with 
one another as soon as the}^ came on board ; the battle between 
vender and purchaser was an agony — they shrieked, clasped 
hands, appealed to one another passionately ; their handsome, 
noble faces assumed a look of woe — quite an heroic eagerness 
and sadness about a farthing. 

Ambassadors from our Hebrews descended at Rhodes to 
buy provisions, and it was curious to see their dealings : there 
was our venerable Rabbi, who, robed in white and silver, and 
bending over his book at the morning service, looked like a 




FORTIFICATIONS AT RHODES. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 365 

patriarch, and whom I saw chaffering about a fowl with a brother 
Rhodian Israehte. How they fought over the body of that lean 
animal ! The street swarmed with Jews : gogghng eyes looked 
out from the old carved casements — hooked noses issued from 
the low antique doors — Jew bo3's driving donke3^s, Hebrew 
mothers nursing children, dusky, tawdry, ragged young beau- 
ties and most venerable gray-bearded fathers were all gathered 
round about the affair of the hen ! And at the same time 
that our Rabbi was arranging the price of it, his children were 
instructed to procure bundles of green branches to decorate the 
ship during their feast. Think of the centuries during which 
these wonderful people have remained unchanged ; and how, 
from the days of Jacob downwards, they have believed and 
swindled ! 

The Rhodian Jews, with their genius for filth, have made 
their quarter of the noble, desolate old town, the most ruinous 
and wretched of all. The escutcheons of the proud old knights 
are still carved over the doors, whence issue these miserable 
greasy hucksters and pedlars. The Turks respected these 
emblems of the brave enemies whom the}' had overcome, and 
left them untouched. When the French seized Malta they were 
by no means so delicate : they effaced armorial bearings with 
their usual hot-headed eagerness ; and a few years after the}' 
had torn down the coats-of-arms of the gentry, the heroes of 
Malta and Eg3'pt were bus}' devising heraldry for themselves, 
and were wild to be barons and counts of the empire. 

The chivalrous relics at Rhodes are very superb. I know of 
no buildings whose stately and picturesque aspect seems to 
correspond better with one's notions of their proud founders. 
The towers and gates are warlike and strong, but beautiful and 
aristocratic : you see that they must have been high-bred 
gentlemen who built them. The edifices appear in almost as 
perfect a condition as when they were in the occupation of the 
noble Knights of St. John ; and they have this advantage over 
modern fortifications, that they are a thousand times more pic- 
turesque. Ancient war condescended to ornament itself, and 
built fine carved castles and vaulted gates : whereas, to judge 
from Gibraltar and Malta, nothing can be less romantic than 
the modern military architecture ; which sternly regards the 
fighting, without in the least heeding the war-paint. Some of 
the huge artillery with which the place was defended still lies in 
the bastions ; and the touch-holes of the guns are preserved by 
being covered with rusty old corselets, worn by defenders of 
the fort three hundred years ago. The Turks, who battered 



366 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

down chivalr}^, seem to be waiting tlieir turn of destruction 
now. In walliing througli Rhodes one is strangely affected by 
witnessing the signs of this double decay. For instance, in tlie 
streets of the knights, you see noble houses, surmounted by 
noble escutcheons of superb knights, who lived there, and 
prayed, and quarrelled, and murdered the Turks ; and were the 
most gallant pirates of the inland seas ; and made vows of 
chastity, and robbed and ravished ; and, professing humihty, 
would admit none but nobility into their order ; and died 
recommending themselves to sweet St. John, and calmly hoping 
for heaven in consideration of all the heathen they had slain. 
When this superb fraternity was obliged to yield to courage as 
great as theirs, faith as sincere, and to robbers even more dex- 
terous and audacious than the noblest knight who ever sang a 
canticle to the Virgin, these halls were filled by magnificent 
Pashas and Agas, who lived here in the intervals of war, and 
having conquered its best champions, despised Christendom 
and chivalry pretty much as an Englishman despises a French- 
man. Now the famous house is let to a shabby merchant, who 
has his little beggarly shop in the bazaar ; to a small oflficer, 
who ekes out his wretched pension by swindling, and who gets 
his pay in bad coin. Mahometanism pays in pewter now, in 
place of silver and gold. The lords of the world have run to 
seed. The powerless old sword frightens nobody now — the 
steel is turned to pewter too, somehow, and will no longer shear 
a Christian head off any shoulders. In the Crusades my wicked 
sympathies have always been with the Turks, They seem to 
me the best Christians of the two ; more humane, less brutally 
presumptuous about their own merits, and more generous in 
esteeming their neighbors. As far as I can get at the authentic 
story, Saladin is a pearl of refinement compared to the brutal 
beef-eating Richard — about whom Sir Walter Scott has led all 
the world astray. 

When shall we have a real account of those times and heroes 

— no good-humored pageant, like those of the Scott romances 

— but a real authentic story to instruct and frighten honest 
people of the present day, and make them thankful that the 
grocer governs the world now in place of the baron ? Mean- 
while a man of tender feehngs may be pardoned for twaddling 
a little over this sad spectacle of the decay of two of the great 
institutions of the world. Knighthood is gone — amen ; it 
expired with dignity, its face to the foe : and old Mahometanism 
is lingering about just ready to drop. But it is unseemly to see 
such a Grand Potentate in such a state of decay : the son of 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 367 

Bajazet Ilderim insolvent; the descendants of the Prophet 
bullied by Calmucs and English and whippersnapper French- 
men ; the Fountain of Magnificence done up, and obliged to 
coin pewter ! Think of the poor dear houris in Paradise, how 
sad the}' must look as the arrivals of the Faithful become less 
and less frequent ever}- day. I can fancy the place beginning 
to wear the fatal Yauxhall look of the Seraglio, and which has 
pursued me ever since I saw it : the fountains of eternal wine 
are beginning to run rather dry, and of a questionable liquor ; 
the ready-roasted-meat trees maj' cry, " Come eat me," every 
now and then, in a faint voice, without any gravy in it — but 
the Faithful begin to doubt about the qualit}- of the victuals. 
Of nights you may see the houris sitting sadl}- under them, 
darning their faded muslins : Ali, Omar, and the Imaums are 
reconciled and have gloomy consultations : and the Chief of the 
Faithful himself, the awful camel-driver, the supernatural hus- 
band of Khadijah, sits alone in a tumble-down kiosk, thinking 
moodily of the destiny that is impending over him ; and of the 
day when his gardens of bliss shall be as vacant as the bank- 
rupt Olympus. 

All the town of Rhodes has this appearance of decay and 
ruin, except a few consuls' houses planted on the sea-side, here 
and there, with bright flags flaunting in the sun ; fresh paint ; 
English crockery ; shining mahogany, &c., — so many emblems 
of the new prosperity of their trade, while the old inhabitants 
were going to rack — the fine Church of St. John, converted 
into a mosque, is a ruined church, with a ruined mosque inside ; 
the fortifications are mouldering away, as much as time will let 
them. There was considerable bustle and stir about the little 
port ; but it was a bustle of people who looked for the most 
part to be beggars ; and I saw no shop in the bazaar that 
seemed to have the value of a pedlar's pack. 

I took, by way of guide, a young fellow from Berlin, a jour- 
neyman shoemaker, who had just been making a tour in Syria, 
and who professed to speak both Arabic and Turkish quite 
fluently — which I thought he might have learned when he was 
a student at college, before he began his profession of shoe- 
making ; but I found he only knew about three words of 
Turkish, which were produced on every occasion, as I walked 
under his guidance through the desolate streets of the noble old 
town. We went out upon the lines of fortification, through an 
ancient gate and guard-house, where once a chapel probably 
stood, and of which the roofs were richly carved and gilded. 



368 KAvSTERN SKETCHES. 

A ragged squad of Turkish soldiers lolled about the gate now ; 
a couple of boys on a donkey ; a grinning slave on a mule ; a 
pair of women flapping along in yellow papooshes ; a basket- 
maker sitting under an antique carved portal, and chanting or 
howling as he plaited his osiers: a peaceful well of water, at 
which knights' chargers had drunk, and at which the double- 
bo3'ed donkey was now refreshing himself — would have made 
a pretty picture for a sentimental artist. As he sits, and 
endeavors to make a sketch of this plaintive little comedy, a 
shabby dignitary of the island comes clattering by on a thirt}'- 
shilling horse, and two or three of the ragged soldiers leave 
their pipes to salute him as he passes under the Gothic arch- 
way. 

The astonishing brightness and clearness of the sky under 
which the island seemed to bask, struck me as surpassing 
anything I had seen — not even at Cadiz, or the Piraeus, had 
I seen sands so 3^ellow, or water so magnificently blue. The 
houses of the people along the shore were but poor tenements, 
with humble court-yards and gardens ; but ever^^ fig-tree was 
gilded and bright, as if it were in an He^^erian orchard ; the 
palms, planted here and there, rose with a sort of halo of hght 
round about them ; the creepers on the walls quite dazzled 
with the brilhancj' of their flowers and leaves ; the people lay 
in the cool shadows, happj^ and idle, with handsome solemn 
faces ; nobod}' seemed to be at work ; the}^ only talked a very 
little, as if idleness and silence were a condition of the delight- 
ful shining atmosphere in which they lived. 

We went down to an old mosque by the sea-shore, with a 
cluster of ancient domes hard by it, blazing in the sunshine, and 
carved all over with names of Allah, and titles of old pirates 
and generals who reposed there. The guardian of the mosque 
sat in the garden-court, upon a high wooden pulpit, lazil}' wag- 
ging his body to and fro, and singing the praises of the Prophet 
gentl}' through his nose, as the breeze stirred through the trees 
overhead, and cast chequered and changing shadows over the 
paved court, and the little fountains, and the nasal psalmist on 
his perch. On one side was the mosque, into which j^ou could 
see, with its white walls and cool matted floor, and quaint 
carved pulpit and ornaments, and nobody at prayers. In the 
middle distance rose up the noble towers and battlements of 
the knightly town, with the deep sea-line behind them. 

It really seemed as if everybody was to have a sort of sober 
cheerfulness, and must yield to indolence under this charming 
atmosphere. I went into the court-yard by the sea-shore (where 




GATE OF THE GRAND MASTER'S PALACE. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 369 

a few lazy ships were lying, with no one on board) , and found 
it was tlie prison of the place. The door was as wide open as 
Westminster Hall. Some prisoners, one or two soldiers and 
functionaries, and some prisoners' wives, were lolHng under an 
arcade by a fountain ; other criminals were strolling about here 
and there, their chains clinking quite cheerfully : and they and 
the guards and officials came up chatting quite friendly to- 
gether, and gazed languidly over the portfoUo, as I was endeav- 
oring to get the likeness of one or two of these comfortable 
malefactors. One old and wrinkled she-criminal, whom I had 
selected on account of the peculiar hideousness of her counte- 
nance, covered it up with a dirty cloth, at which there was a 
general roar of laughter among this good-humored auditory of 
cut-throats, pickpockets, and policemen. The only sj'mptom 
of a prison about the place was a door, across which a couple 
of sentinels were stretched, yawning ; while within lay three 
freshly-caught pirates, chained by the leg. They had com- 
mitted some murders of a ver}' late date, and were awaiting 
sentence ; but their wives were allowed to communicate freely 
with them : and it seemed to me, that if half a dozen friends 
would set them free, and thc}^ themselves had energy enough to 
move, the sentinels would be a great deal too lazy to walk after 
them. 

The combined influence of Rhodes and Ramazan, I suppose, 
had taken possession of my friend the Schuster-gesell from 
Berlin. As soon as he received his fee, he cut me at once, and 
went and lay down by a fountain near the port, and ate grapes 
out of a dirty pocket-handkerchief. Other Christian idlers lay 
near him, dozing, or sprawling in the boats, or listlessl}^ munch- 
ing watermelons. Along the coffee-houses of the qua}' sat 
hundreds more, with no better employment ; and the captain 
of the " Iberia " and his officers, and several of the passengers 
in that famous steamship, were in this compan}', being idle 
with all their might. Two or three adventurous young men 
went off to see the valley where the dragon was killed ; but 
others, more susceptible of the real influence of the island, I 
am sure would not have moved though we had been told that 
the Colossus himself was taking a walk half a mile off. 



24 



370 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE WHITE SQUALL. 

On deck, beneath the awning, 

I dozing lay and yawning ; - 

It was the gray of dawning, 

Ere yet the sun arose ; 
And above the funnel's roaring, 
And the fitful wind's deploring, 
I heard the cabin snoring 

With universal nose. 
I could hear the passengers snorting, 
I envied their disporting. 
Vainly I was courting 

The pleasure of a doze. 

So I lay, and wondered why light 
Came not, and watched the twilight 
And the glimmer of the skylight, 

That shot across the deck ; 
And the binnacle pale and steady. 
And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye, 
And the sparks in fier}^ eddy, 

That whirled from the chimney neck ; 
In our jovial floating prison 
There was sleep from fore to mizzen. 
And never a star had risen 

The hazy sky to speck. 



Strange company we harbored ; 
We'd a hundred Jews to larboard. 
Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered, 

Jews black, and brown, and gray; 
With terror it would seize ye. 
And make your souls uneasy. 
To see those Rabbis greas}^ 

Who did nought but scratch and pray i 
Their dirtj^ children pucking. 
Their dirty saucepans cooking. 
Their dirty fingers hooking 

Their swarming fleas away. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 371 

To starboard Turks and Greeks were, 
Whiskered, and brown their cheeks were, 
Enormous wide their breeks were, 

Their pipes did puff alway ; 
Each on his mat aUotted, 
In silence smoked and squatted, 
Whilst round their children trotted, 

In prett}', pleasant pla3\ 
He can't but smile who traces 
The smiles on those brown faces. 
And the pretty prattling graces 

Of those small heathens gay. 



And so the hours kept toUing, 
And through the ocean rolling, 
Went the brave ' ' Iberia " bowling 

Before the break of day 

When a Squall upon a sudden 
Came o'er the waters scudding ; 
And the clouds began to gather, 
And the sea was lashed to lather. 
And the lowering thunder grumbled. 
And the lightning jumped and tumbled, 
And the ship, and all the ocean, 
Woke up in wild commotion. 
Then the wind set up a howling. 
And the poodle-dog a yowling. 
And the cocks began a crowing. 
And the old cow raised a lowing. 
As she heard the tempest blowing ; 
And fowls and geese did cackle. 
And the cordage and the tackle 
Began to shriek and crackle ; 
And the spray dashed o'er the funnels, 
And down the deck in runnels ; 
And the rushing water soaks all. 
From the seamen in the fo'ksal 
To the stokers, whose black faces 
Peer out of their bed-places ; 
And the captain he was bawling. 
And the sailors pulling, hauling ; 
And the quarter-deck tarpauling 
Was shivered in the squalling ; 



372 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

And the passengers awaken, 

Most pitifull}' shaken ; 

And the steward jumps up, and hastens 

For the necessary basins. 

Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered, 
And the}^ knelt, and moaned, and shivered, 
As the phmging waters met them. 
And splashed and overset them ; 
And the}' call in their emergence 
Upon countless saints and virgins ; 
And their marrowbones are bended, 
And they think the world is ended. 

And the Turkish women for'ard 
Were frightened and behorror'd ; 
And, shrieking and bewildering. 
The mothers clutched their children ; 
The men sung ' ' Allah Illah ! 
Mashallah Bismillah ! " 
As the warring waters doused them, 
And splashed them and soused them ; 
And they called upon the Prophet, 
And thought but little of it. 

Then all the fleas in Jewry 
Jumped up and bit like fury ; 
And the progeny of Jacob 
Did on the main-deck wake up 
(I wot those greasy Rabbins 
Would never pay for cabins) ; 
And each man moaned and jabbered in 
His filthy Jewish gaberdine, 
In woe and lamentation, 
And howling consternation. 
And the splashing water drenches 
Their dirty brats and wenches ; 
And they crawl from bales and benches, 
In a hundred thousand stenches. 

This was the White Squall famous 
Which latterly o'ercame us. 
And which all will well remember 
On the 28th September ; 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 373 

When a Prussian Captain of Lancers 

(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) 

Came on the deck astonished, 

By that wild squall admonished, 

And wondering cried, " Potztausend! 

Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend ! " 

And hooked at Captain Lewis, 

Who calmly stood and blew his 

Cigar in all the bustle. 

And scorned the tempest's tussle. 

And oft we've thought thereafter 

How he beat the storm to laughter ; 

For well he knew his vessel 

With that vain wind could wrestle ; 

And when a wreck we thought her 

And doomed ourselves to slaughter, 

How gayly he fought her. 

And through the hubbub brought her, 

And, as the tempest caught her, 

Cried, " George ! some brandy and watee I " 

And when, its force expended. 
The harmless storm was ended. 
And, as the sunrise splendid 

Came blushing o'er the sea ; 
I thought, as day was breaking, 
My little girls were waking. 
And smiling, and making 

A prayer at home for me. 



CHAPTER X. 

TELMESSUS. BEYROUT. 

There should have been a poet in our company to describe 
that chaiming little bay of Glaucus, into which we entered on the 
26th of September, in the first steamboat that ever disturbed its 
beautiful waters. You can't put down in prose that deUcious 
episode of natural poetry ; it ought to be done in a S3'mphony, 
full of sweet melodies and swelling harmonies ; or sung in a 



374 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

strain of clear crystal iambics, such as Milnes knows how to 
write. A mere map, drawn in words, gives the mind no notion 
of that exquisite nature. What do mountains become in tj'pe, 
or rivers in Mr. Vizetell^^'s best brevier? Here lies the sweet 
bay, gleaming peaceful in the rosy sunshine : green islands dip 
here and there in its waters ; purple mountains swell circling 
round it; and towards them, rising from the bay, stretches a 
rich green plain, fruitful with herbs and various foliage, in the 
midst of which the white houses twinkle. I can see a little 
minaret, and some spreading palm-trees ; but, beyond these, 
the description would answer as well for Bantry Ba}^ as for 
Makri. You could write so far, nay, much more particularl}' 
and grandly, without seeing the place at all, and after reading 
Beaufort's " Caramania," which gives you not the least notion 
of it. 

Suppose the great hydrographer of the Admira% himself 
can't describe it, who surveyed the place ; suppose Mr. Fel- 
lowes, who discovered it afterwards — suppose, I say, Sir John 
Fellowes, Knt., can't do it (and I defy anj^ man of imagination 
to get an impression of Telmessus from his book) — can you, 
vain man, hope to try? The effect of the artist, as* I take it, 
ought to be, to produce upon his hearer's mind, b}^ his art, an 
effect something similar to that produced on his own by the 
sight of the natural object. Only music, or the best poetry, can 
do this. Keats's " Ode to the Grecian Urn " is the best descrip- 
tion I know of that sweet, old, silent ruin of Telmessus. After 
you have once seen it, the remembrance remains with you, like a 
tune from Mozart, which he seems to have caught out of heaven, 
and which rings sweet harmony in your ears for ever after ! It's 
a benefit for all after life ! You have but to shut 3'our eyes, 
and think, and recall it, and the delightful vision comes smil- 
ing back, to your order! — the divine air — the delicious little 
pageant, which nature set before 3'ou on this luck}' day. 

Here is the entry made in the note-book on the eventful 
day : — "In the morning steamed into the Bay of Glaucus — 
landed at Makri — cheerful old desolate village — theatre bj' 
the beautiful sea-shore — great fertilit,y, oleanders — a palm- 
tree in the midst of the village, spreading out like a Sultan's 
aigrette — sculptured caverns, or tombs, up the mountain — 
camels over the bridge. 

Perhaps it is best for a man of fanc}' to make his own land- 
scape out of these materials : to group the couched camels under 
the plane-trees ; the little crowd of wandering, ragged heathens 
come down to the calm water, to behold the nearing steamer ; 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 375 

to fanc}" a mountain, in the sides of which some scores of 
tonihs are rudely carved ; pillars and porticos, and Doric en- 
tablatures. But it is of the little theatre that he must make 
the most beautiful picture — a charming little place of festival, 
lying out on the shore, and looking over the sweet bay and the 
swelling puVple islands. No theatre-goer ever looked out on a 
fairer scene. It encourages poetry, idleness, delicious sensual 
reverie. O Jones ! friend of m}" heart ! would you not like to 
be a white-robed Greek, lolling languidly on the cool benches 
here, and pouring compliments (in the Ionic dialect) into the 
ros}^ ears of Neaera? Instead of Jones, your name should be 
lonides ; instead of a silk hat, you should wear a chaplet of 
roses in 3'our hair : 3'ou would not listen to the choruses they 
were singing on the stage, for the voice of the fair one would 
be whispering a rendezvous for the mesonulctirns horais, and m}' 
lonides would have no ear for aught beside. Yonder, in the 
mountain, thej' would carve a Doric cave temple, to receive 
3'our urn when all was done ; and 3'ou would be accompanied 
thither by a dirge of the surviving lonidae. The caves of the 
dead are empty now, however, and their place knows them not 
an}' more among the festal haunts of the living. But, by way 
of suppl3'ing the choric melodies sung here in old time, one of 
our companions mounted on the scene and spouted, 

" My name is Norval." 

On the same day we lay to for a while at another ruined 
theatre, that of Antiphilos. The Oxford men, fresh with recol- 
lections of the httle-go, bounded away up the hill on which it 
lies to the ruin, measured the steps of the theatre, and cal- 
culated the width of the scene ; while others, less active, 
watched them with telescopes from the ship's sides, as the}' 
plunged in and out of the stones and hollows. 

Two days after the scene was quite changed. We were out 
of sight of the classical countr3', and la3' in St. George's Bay, 
behind a huge mountain, upon which St. George fought the 
dragon, and rescued the lovel3' Lady Sabra, the King of Bab3'- 
lon's daughter. The Turkish fleet was lying about us, com- 
manded b3' that Halil Pacha whose two children the two last 
Sultans murdered. The crimson flag, with the star and cres- 
cent, floated at the stern of his ship. Our diplomatist put on 
his uniform and cordons, and paid his Excellency a visit. He 
spoke in rapture, when he returned, of the beauty and order of 
the ship, and the urbanit}' of the infidel admiral. He sent us 
bottles of ancient C3'prus wine to drink : and the ca[)tain of her 



376 EASTER]^ SKETCHES. 

Majesty's ship, "Trump," alongside which we were lying, 
confirmed that good opinion of the Capitan Pasha which the 
reception of the above present led us to entertain, b}' relating 
many instances of his friendliness and hospitalities. Captain 

G said the Turkish ships were as well manned, as well 

kept, and as well manoeuvred, as anj' vessels in an}^ service ; 
and intimated a desire to command a Turkish seventj'-four, 
and a perfect willingness to fight her against a French ship of 
the same size. But I heartily trust he will neither embrace the 
Mahometan opinions, nor be called upon to engage any 'sevent}-- 
four whatever. If he do, let us hope he will have his own men 
to fight with. If the crew of the " Trump" were all like the crew 
of the captain's boat, they need fear no two hundred and fifty 
men out of au}^ country, with any Joinville at their head. We 
were carried on shore by this boat. For two years, during 
which the "Trump" had been lying off Beyrout, none of the 
men but these eight had ever set foot on shore. Mustn't it 
be a happ3' life ? We were landed at the busy quay of Beyrout, 
flanked by the castle that the fighting old commodore half bat- 
tered down. 

Along the BejTout quays, civilization flourishes under the 
flags of the consul, which are streaming out over the 3^ellow 
buildings in the clear air. Hither she brings from England her 
produce of marine stores and woollens, her crockeries, her port- 
able soups, and her bitter ale. Hither she has brought polite- 
ness, and the last modes from Paris. They were exhibited in 
the person of a pretty lady, superintending the great French 
store, and who, seeing a stranger sketching on the quay, sent for- 
ward a man with a chair to accommodate that artist, and greeted 
him with a bow and a smile, such as only can be found in 
France. Then she fell to talking to a young French officer 
with a beard, who was greatly smitten with her. They were 
making love just as thej' do on the Boulevard. An Arab porter 
left his bales, and the camel he was unloading, to come and 
look at the sketch. Two stumpy, flat-faced Turkish soldiers, 
in red caps and white undresses, peered over the paper. A 
noble little Lebanonian girl, with a deep yellow face, and curlj' 
dun-colored hair, and a blue tattooed chin, and for all clothing 
a little ragged shift of blue cloth, stood by hke a Uttle statue, 
holding her urn, and stared with wondering brown eyes. How 
magnificently blue the water was ! — how bright the flags and 
buildings as the}^, shone above it, and the lines of the rigging 
tossing in the bay ! The white crests of the blue waves jumped 
and sparkled like quicksilver ; the shadows were as broad and 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 377 

cool as the lights were brilliant and rosy ; the battered old 
towers of the commodore looked quite cheerful in the delicious 
atmosphere ; and the mountains bej'ond Yvere of an amethyst 
color. The French officer and the lady went on chattering 
quite happih' about love, the last new bonnet, or the battle of 
Isley, or the " Juif Errant." How neatly her gown and sleeves 
fitted her pretty little person ! We had not seen a woman for a 
month except honest Mrs. Flanigan, the stev»^ardess, and the 
ladies of our partj', and the tips of the noses of the Constanti- 
nople beauties as they passed by leering from their yakmacs, 
waddling and plapping in their odious 3'ellow papooshes. 

And this da}' is to be marked with a second white stone, 
for having given the lucky writer of the present, occasion to 
behold a second beauty. This was a native Syrian damsel, 
who bore the sweet name of Mariam. So it was she stood as 
two of us (I mention the number for fear of scandal) took her 
picture. 

So it was that the good-natured black cook looked behind 
her 3'oung mistress, with a benevolent grin, that only the ad- 
mirable Leslie could paint. 

Mariam was the sister of the young guide whom we hired to 
show us through the town, and to let us be cheated in the pur- 
chase of gilt scarfs, and handkerchiefs, which strangers think 
proper to buy. And before the aboA^e authentic drawing could 
be made, man}^ were the stratagems the wily artists were 
obliged to employ, to subdue the shyness of the little Mariam. In 
the first place, she would stand behind the door (from which in 
the darkness her beautiful black eyes gleamed out like penny 
tapers) ; nor could the entreaties of her brother and mamma 
bring her from that hiding-place. In order to conciHate the 
latter, we began by making a picture of her too — that is, not 
of her, who was an enormous old fat woman in yellow, quiver- 
ing all over with strings of pearls, and necklaces of sequins, 
and other ornaments, the which descended from her neck, 
and down lier ample stomacher; we did not depict that big 
old woman, who would have been frightened at an accurate 
representation of her own enormity ; but an ideal being, all 
grace and beauty, dressed in her costume, and still sim- 
pering before me in my sketch-book like a lady in a book of 
fashions. 

This portrait was shown to the old woman, who handed it 
over to the black cook, who, grinning, carried it to little Mariam 
— and the result was, that the young creature stepped forward, 
and submitted ; and has come over to Europe as you see. 



EASTERN SKETCHES. 



A very snug and 
happy family did 
this of Mariam's 
appear to be. If 
you could judge hj 
all the laughter and 
giggling, by the 
splendor of the wo- 
men's attire, by the 
neatness of the lit- 
tle house, prettil}' 
decorated with ara- 
besque paintings, 
neat mats, and gay 
carpets, they were 
a family well to 
do in the Be3'rout 
world, and lived 
with as much com- 
fort as an}- Euro- 
peans. They had 
one book ; and, 
on the wall of tlie 
principal apart- 
ment, a black picture of the Virgin, whose name is borne by- 
pretty Mariam. 

The camels and the soldiers, the bazaars and khans, the 
fountains and awnings, which chequer, with such delightful 
variet}' of light and shade, the alle3-s and markets of an Ori- 
ental town, are to be seen in Be3rout in perfection ; and an 
artist might here emplo}^ himself for months with advantage 
and pleasure. A new costume was here added to the motley 
and picturesque assembly of dresses. This was the dress of 
the blue-veiled women from the Lebanon, stalking solemnly 
through the markets, with huge horns, near a yard high, on 
their foreheads. For thousands of 3'ears, since the time the 
Hebrew prophets wrote, these horns have so been exalted in 
the Lebanon. 




At night Captain Lewis gave a splendid ball and supper to 
the " Trump." We had the "Trump's" band to perform the 
music ; and a grand sight it was to see the captain himself 
enthusiastically leading on the drum. Blue lights and rockets 
were burned from the yards of our ship ; which festive signals 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 379 

were answered presently from the " Trump," and from another 
English vessel in the harbor. 

They must have struck the Capitan Pasha with wonder, for 
he sent his secretar}- on board of us to inquire w^hat the fire- 
works meant. And the worth}^ Turk had scarceh' put his foot 
on the deck, w4ien he found himself seized round the waist by 
one of the '• Trump's " officers, and whirling round the deck in 
a waltz, to his own amazement, and the huge deUght of the 
com pan} . His face of wonder and graA^t}', as he went on 
twirling, could not have been exceeded by that of a dancings 
dervish at Scutari ; and the manner in which he managed to 
enjamber th© waltz excited universal applause. 

I forget whether he accommodated himself to European w^a^'s 
so much further as to drink champagne at supper-time ; to say 
that he did would be telling tales out of school, and might inter- 
fere with the future advancement of that jolly dancing Turk. 

We made acquaintance with another of the Sultan's sub- 
jects, who, I fear, will have occasion to doubt of the honor of 
the English nation, after the foul treachery with which he was 
treated. 

Among the occupiers of the little bazaar watchboxes, ven- 
ders of embroidered handkerchiefs and other articles of showy 
Eastern haberdasher}*, was a good-booking, neat 3'oung fellow, 
who spoke English ver}' fluently, and was particularly atten- 
tive to all the passengers on board our ship. This gentleman 
was not onh' a pocket-handkerchief merchant in the bazaar, but 
earned a further livelihood by letting out mules and donkej's ; 
and he kept a small lodging-house, or inn, for travellers, as we 
were informed. 

No wonder he spoke good English, and was exceedinglj^ 
polite and well-bred ; for the worthy man had passed some 
time in England, and in the best society too. That humble 
haberdasher at Beyrout had been a lion here, at the very best 
houses of the great people, and had actually made his appear- 
ance at Windsor, where he was received as a» S3Tian Prince, 
and treated with great hospitality b}* royalty itself. 

I don't know what waggish propensit}' moved one of the 
officers of the "Trump" to say that there was an equerrj^ of 
his Royal Highness the Prince on board, and to point me out 
as the dignified persouage in question. So the Syrian Prince 
was introduced to the royal equerry, ar.d a great many compli- 
ments passed between us. I even had the audacity to state 
that on my ver}' last interview with mj vovvlI master, his Royal 
Highness had said, "Colonel Titmarsh, wlieii you go to Bey- 



380 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

rout, 3"ou will make special inquiries regarding my interesting 
friend Cogia Hassan." 

Poor Cogia Hassan (I forget whether that was his name, 
but it is as good as another) was overpowered with this roj'al 
message ; and we had an intimate conversation together, at 
which the waggish officer of the ' ' Trump " assisted with the 
greatest glee. 

But see the consequences of deceit ! The next da}'^, as we 
were getting under way, who should come on board but my 
friend the Syrian Prince, most eager for a last interview with 
the Windsor equerr}^ ; and he begged me to carry his protes- 
tations of unalterable fldehty to the gracious consort of her 
Majesty. Nor was this all. Cogia Hassan actually produced 
a great box of sweetmeats, of which he begged my excellency 
to accept, and a little figure of a doll dressed in the costume of 
Lebanon. Then the punishment of imposture begun to be felt 
severely b}^ me. How to accept the poor devil's sweetmeats? 
How to refuse them? And as we know that one fib leads to 
another, so I was obliged to support the first falsehood by 
another; and putting on a dignified air — "Cogia Hassan," 
says I, " I am surprised you don't know the habits of the 
British Court better, aud are not aware that our gracious mas- 
ter solemnly forbids his servants to accept any sort of back- 
sheesh upon our travels." 

So Prince Cogia Hassan went over the side with his chest 
of sweetmeats, but insisted on leaving the doll, which may be 
worth twopence-halfpenny ; of which, and of the costume of 
the women of Lebanon, the following is an accm'ate likeness.* 



CHAPTER XL 

. A DAY AND NIGHT IN SYRIA. 

When, after being for five whole weeks at sea, with a general 
behef that at the end of a few days the marine malady leaves 
3^ou for good, you find that a brisk wind and a heavy rolling 
swell create exactly the same inward eflTects which they occa- 
sioned at the very commencement of the voyage — you begin 
to fanc}^ that you are unfairly dealt with : and I, for m}" part, 
had thought of complaining to the compan}^ of this atrocious 

* This refers to an illustrated edition of the work. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 381 

violation of the rules of their prospectus ; but we were per- 
petualh' coming to anchor in various ports, at which intervals 
of peace and good humor were restored to us. 

On the 3rd of October our cable rushed with a huge rattle 
into the blue sea before Jaffa, at a distance of considerably 
more than a mile off the town, which lay before us ver}^ clear, 
with the flags of the consuls flaring in the bright sky, and 
making a cheerful and hospitable show. The houses a great 
heap of sun-baked stones, surmounted here and there b}' mina- 
rets and countlQBS little whitewashed domes ; a few date-trees 
spread out their fan-like heads over these dull-looking build- 
ings ; long sands stretched away on either side, with low purple 
hills behind them ; we could see specks of camels crawling over 
these yellow plains ; and those persons who were about to land, 
had the leisure to behold the sea-spray flashing over the sands, 
and over a heap of black rocks wliich lie before the entry to 
the town. The swell is very great, the passage between the 
rocks narrow, and the danger sometimes considerable. So the 
guide began to entertain the ladies and other passengers in 
the huge country boat which brought us from the steamer, with 
an agreeable story of a lieutenant and eight seamen of one of her 
Majesty's ships, who were upset, dashed to pieces, and drowned 
upon these rocks, through which two men and two hojs, with a 
very moderate portion of clothing, each standing and pulling 
half an oar — there were but two oars between them, and an- 
other by way of rudder — were endeavoring to guide us. 

When the danger of the rocks and surf was passed, came 
another danger of the hideous brutes in brown skins and the 
briefest shirts, who came towards the boat, straddling through 
the water with outstretched arms, grinning and yelling their 
Arab invitations to mount their shoulders. I think these fel- 
lows frightened the ladies still more than the rocks and the 
surf; but the poor creatures were obliged to submit; and, 
trembling, were accommodated somehow upon the mahoganj' 
backs of these ruffians, carried through the shallows, and flung 
up to a ledge before the city gate, where crowds more of dark 
people were swarming, howling after their fashion. The gen- 
tlemen, meanwhile, were having arguments about the eternal 
backsheesh with the roaring Arab boatmen ; and I recall with 
wonder and delight especially, the curses and screams of one 
small and extremely loud-lunged fellow, who expressed dis- 
content at receiving a five, instead of a six piastre piece. But 
how is one to know, without possessing the language? Both 
coins are made of a greasy pewtery sort of tin ; and I thought 



382 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

the biggest was the most vahiable : but the fellow showed a 
sense of their value, and a disposition seeming!}' to cut any 
man's throat who did not understand it. Men's throats have 
been cut for a less difference before now. 

Being cast upon the ledge, the first care of our gallantly was 
to look after the ladies, who were scared and astonislied b}- the 
naked savage brutes, who were shouldering the poor things to 
and fro ; and bearing them through these and a dark archway, 
we came into a street crammed with donkeys and their packs 
and drivers, and towering camels with leering ^yes looking into 
the second-floor rooms, and huge splay feet, through which 
mesdames et mesdemoiselles were to be conducted. We made a 
rush at the first open door, and passed comfortably under the 
heels of some horses gathered under the arched court, and up 
a stone staircase, which turned out to be that of the Russian 
consul's house. His people welcomed us most cordially to his 
abode, and the ladies and the luggage (objects of our solicitude) 
were led up many stairs and across several terraces to a most 
comfortable little room, under a dome or its own, where the 
representative of Russia sat. Women with brown faces and 
draggle-tailed coats and turbans, and wondering eyes, and no 
stays, and blue beads and gold chains hanging round their 
necks, came to gaze, as they passed, upon the fair neat English 
women. Blows}^ black cooks puffing over fires and the strangest 
pots and pans on the terraces, children paddling about in long 
striped robes, interrupted their sports or labors to come and 
stare ; and the consul, in his cool domed chamber, with a lat- 
tice overlooking the sea, with clean mats, and pictures of the 
Emperor, the Virgin, and St. George, received the strangers 
with smiling courtesies, regaling the ladies with pomegranates 
and sugar, the gentlemen with pipes of tobacco, whereof the 
fragrant tubes were three 3^ards long. 

The Russian amenities concluded, we left the ladies still 
under the comfortable, cool dome of the Russian consulate, and 
went to see our own repr-.sentative. The streets of the little 
town are neither agreeable to horse nor foot travellers. Man}^ 
of the streets are mere flights of rough steps, leading abruptly 
into private houses : you pass under archways and passages 
numberless ; a steep, dirty labyrinth of stone-vaulted stables 
and sheds occupies the ground-floor of the habitations ; and 3'ou 
pass from flat to flat of the terraces ; at various irregular cor- 
ners of which, little chambers, with little private domes, are 
erected, and the people live seemingly as much upon the terrace 
as in the room. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 383 

We found the English consul in a queer little arched cham- 
ber, with a strange old picture of the King's arms to decorate 
one side of it : and here the consul, a demure old man, dressed 
in red flowing robes, wath a feeble janissary bearing a shabby 
tin-mounted staff, or mace, to denote his office, received such of 
our nation as came to him for hospitality. He distributed pipes 
and cofl:ee to all and every one ; he made us a present of his 
house and all his beds for the night, and went himself to lie 
quietly on the terrace ; and for all this hospitality he declined 
to receive any reward from us, and said he was but doing his 
dut}' in taking us in. This worth}^ man, I thought, must doubt- 
less be very well paid by our Government for making such sacri- 
fices ; but it appears that he does not get one single farthing, 
and that the greater number of our Levant consuls are paid 
at a similar rate of easy remuneration. If we have bad consular 
agents, have we a right to complain? If the worthy gentlemen 
cheat occasionally, can we reasonably be angry? But in travel- 
ling through these countries, English people, who don't take 
into consideration the miserable poverty' and scanty resources 
of their countr}', and are apt to brag and be proud of it, have 
their vanity hurt by seeing the representatives of every nation 
but their own well and decentl}' maintained, and feel ashamed 
at sitting down under the shabby protection of our mean con 
sular flag. 

The active young men of our part}' had been on shore long 
before us, and seized upon all the available horses in the town ; 
but we relied upon a letter from Halil Pacha, enjoining all gov- 
ernors and pashas to help us in all ways : and hearing we were 
the bearers of this document, the cadi and vice-governor of 
JaflTa came to wait upon the head of our party ; declared that it 
w^as his delight and honor to set e3'es upon us ; that he would 
do ever3'thing in tlie world to serve us ; that there were no 
horses, unluckily, but he would send and get some in three 
hours ; and so left us wdth a world of grinning bows and many 
choice compliments from one side to the other, which came to 
each filtered through an obsequious interpreter. But hours 
passed, and the clatter of horses' hoofs was not heard. We had 
our dinner of eggs and flaps of bread, and the sunset gun fired : 
we had our pipes and coffee again, and the night fell. Is this 
man throwing dirt upon us? we began to think. Is he laugh- 
ing at our beards, and are our mothers' graves ill-treated 
by this smiling, swindlhig cadi? We determined to go and 
seek in his own den this shuffling dispenser of infidel justice. 
This time we would be no more bamboozled by compliments ; 



384 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

but we would use the language of stern expostulation, and, 
being roused, would let the rascal hear the roar of the indignant 
British lion ; so we rose up in our wrath. The poor consul got 
a lamp for us with a bit of wax-candle, such as I wonder his 
means "could afford ; the shabby janissary marched ahead with 
his tin mace ; the two laquais-de-place, that two of our company 
had hired, stepped forward, each with an old sabre, and we went 
clattering and stumbling down the streets of the town, in order 
to seize upon this cadi in his own divan. I was glad, for my 
part (though outwardly majestic and indignant in demeanor), 
that the horses had not come, and that we had a chance of see- 
ing this little queer glimpse of Oriental life, which the magis- 
trate's faithlessness procured for us. 

As piety forbids the Turks to eat during the weary daylight 
hours of the Ramazan, they spend their time profitabl}- in sleep- 
ing until the welcome sunset, when the town wakens : all the 
lanterns are lighted up ; all the pipes begin to puff, and the 
narghiles to bubble ; all the sour-milk-and-sherbet-men begin 
to yell out the excellence of their wares ; all the frying-pans in 
the little dirty cookshops begin to friz, and the pots to send 
forth a steam': and through this dingy, ragged, bustling, beg- 
garl}', cheerful scene, we began now to march towai'ds the Bow 
Street of Jaffa. We bustled through a crowded narrow arch- 
wa}^ which led to the cadi's police-office, entered the little room, 
atrociously perfumed with musk, and passing by the rail-board, 
where the common sort stood, mounted the stage upon which 
his worship and friends sat, and squatted down on the divans 
in stern and silent dignity. His honor ordered us coffee, his 
countenance evidently showing considerable alarm. A black 
slave, whose duty seemed to be to prepare this beverage in a 
side-room with a furnace, prepared for each of us about a tea- 
spoonful of the liquor: his worship's clerk, I presume, a tall 
Turk of a noble aspect, presented it to us ; and having lapped 
up the little modicum of drink, the British lion began to speak. 

All the other travellers (said tlie lion with perfect reason) have 
good horses and are gone ; the Russians have got horses, the 
vSpaniards have horses, the English have horses, but we, we 
vizirs in our country, coming with letters of Halil Pacha, are 
laughed at, spit upon ! Are Halil Pacha's letters dirt, that you 
attend to them in this way ? Are British lions dogs that you 
treat them so? — and so on. This speech with many variations 
was made on our side for a quarter of an hour ; and we finally 
swore that unless the horses were forthcoming we would write 
to Halil Pacha the next morning, and to his Excellency the 



FKOM COKNHILL TO CAIRO. 385 

English Minister at the Subhme Porte. Then you should have 
heard the chorus of Turks in repl)^ : a dozen voices rose up 
from the divan, shouting, screaming, ejaculating, expectorating, 
(the Arabic spoken language seems to require a great emplo}'- 
meut of the two latter oratorical methods), and uttering what 
the meek interpreter did not translate to us, but what I dare 
sa}^ were by no means complimentary phrases towards us and 
our nation. Finally, the palaver concluded bj- the cadi declar- 
ing that by the will of heaven horses should be forthcoming at 
three o'clock in the morning ; and that if not, wh}^ then, we 
might write to Halil Pacha. 

This posed us, and we rose up and haughtily took leave. 
I should like to know that fellow's real opinion of us hons 
ver}^ much : and especially to have had the translation of the 
speeches of a huge-breeched turbaned roaring infidel, who 
looked and spoke as if he would have liked to fling us all into 
the sea, which was hoarsel}' murmuring under our windows an 
accompaniment to the concert within. 

We then marched through the bazaars, that were lofty and 
grim, and prett}^ full of people. In a desolate broken building, 
some hundreds of children were playing and singing ; in raanj^ 
corners sat parties over their water-pipes, one of whom every 
now and then would begin twanging out a most queer chant ; 
others there were playing at casino — a crowd squatted around 
the squalling gamblers, and talking and looking on with eager 
interest. In one place of the bazaar we found a hundred people 
at least listening to a story-teller, who dehvered his tale with 
excellent action, voice, and volubilit}^ •- in another thej' were 
playing a sort of thimblerig with coffee-cups, all intent upon the 
game, and the player himself ver}' wild lest one of our party, 
who had discovered where the pea lay, should tell the company-. 
The devotion and energy with which all these pastimes were 
pursued, struck me as much as anything. These people have 
been playing thimblerig and casino ; that story-teller has been 
shouting his tale of Antar for forty years ; and they are just as 
happy with this amusement now as when first the}' tried it. Is 
there no ennui in the Eastern countries, and are blue-devils not 
allowed to go abroad there ? 

From the bazaars we went to see the house of Mustapha, 
said to be the best house and the greatest man of Jaffa. But 
the great man had absconded suddenly, and had fled into 
Egypt. The Sultan had made a demand upon him for sixteen 
thousand purses, 80,000/. — Mustapha retired — the Sultan 
pounced down upon his house, and his goods, his horses and 



oS6 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

his mules. His harem was desolate. Mr. Milnes could have 
written six affecthig poems, had he been with us, on the dark 
loneliness of that violated sanctuar}^ We passed from hall to 
hall, terrace to terrace — a few fellows were slumbering on the 
naked floors, and scarce turned as we went b}' them. Vv"e 
entered Mustapha's particular divan — there was the raised 
floor, but no bearded friends squatting away the night of Rama- 
zan ; there was the little coffee furnace, but where was the 
slave and the coffee and the glowing embers of the pipes ? 
Mustapha's favorite passages from the Koran were still painted 
up on the walls, but nobod}' was the wiser for them. We 
walked over a sleeping negro, and opened the windows which 
looked into his gardens. The horses and donkeys, the camels 
and mules w^ere picketed there below, but where is the said 
Mustapha? From the frying-pan of the Porte, has he not 
fallen into the fire of Mehemet Ali? And which is best, to broil 
or to fry? If it be but to read the "Arabian Nights " again on 
getting home, it is good to have made this little voyage and 
seen these strange places and faces. 

Then we went out through the arched lowering gateway of 
the town into the plain bevond, and that was another famous 
and brilliant scene of the " Arabian Nights." The heaven shone 
with a marvellous brillianc}' — the plain disappeared far in the 
haze — the towers and battlements of the town rose black 
against the sky — old outlandish trees rose up here and there — 
clumps of camels were couched in the rare herbage — dogs were 
baying about — groups of men lay sleeping under their haicks 
round about — round about the tall gates many lights were 
twinkling — and they brought us water-pipes and sherbet — and 
we wondered to think that London was only three weeks off". 

Then came the night at the consul's. The poor demure old 
gentleman brought out his mattresses ; and the ladies sleeping 
round on the divans, we lay down quite happ}^ ; and I for my 
part intended to make as delightful dreams as Alnaschar ; but 
— lo, the delicate mosquito sounded his horn : the active flea 
jumped up, and came to feast on Christian flesh (the Eastern 
flea bites more bitterly than the most savage bug in Christen- 
dom), and the bug — oh, the accursed! Wh}' was he made? 
What dut3^ has that infamous ruffian to perform in the world, 
save to make people wretched? Only Bulwer in his most pa- 
thetic style coulcf describe the miseries of that night — the 
moaning, the groaning, the cursing, the tumbling, the blistering, 
the infamous despair and degradation ! I heard all the cocks 
in Jaff'a crow ; the children crying, and the mothers hushing 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 387 

them ; the donkeys braying fitfulh' in tlie moonlight ; at last, I 
heard the clatter of hoofs below, and the hailing of men. It was 
three o'clock, the horses were actuall}' come ; nay, there were 
camels likewise ; asses and mules, pack-saddles and drivers, !ill 
bustling together under the moonlight in the cheerful street — 
and the first night in Syria was over. 



CHAPTER XII. 

FROM JAFFA TO JERUSALEM. 

It took an hour or more to get our little caravan into march- 
ing order, to accommodate all the packs to the horses, the 
horses to the riders ; to see the ladies comfortabl}' placed in 
their litter, with a sleek and large black mule fore and aft, a 
groom to each mule, and a tall and exceedingh' good-natured 
and mahogan}'- colored infidel to walk by the side of the carriage, 
to balance it as it swaj'ed to and fro, and to offer his back as 
a step to the inmates whenever they were minded to ascend 
or alight. These three fellows, fasting through the Ramazan, 
and over as rough a road, for the greater part, as ever shook 
mortal bones, performed their fourteen hours' walk of near forty 
miles, with the most admirable courage, alacrity, and good hu- 
mor. The}^ once or twice drank water on the march, and so 
far infringed tlie rule ; but the}^ refused all bread or edible re- 
freshment oflTered to them, and tugged on with an energy that 
the best camel, and I am sure the best Christian, might euAy. 
What a lesson of good-humored endurance it was to certain 
Pall Mall Sardanapaluses, who grumble if club sofa -cushions are 
not soft enough ! 

If I could write sonnets at leisure, I would like to chronicle 
in fourteen lines mj^ sensations on finding myself on a high 
Turkish saddle, with a pair of fire-shovel stirrups and worsted 
reins, red padded saddle-cloth, and innumerable tags, fringes, 
glass-beads, ends of rope, to decorate the harness of the horse, 
the gallant steed on which I was about to gallop into Syrian 
life. What a figure we cut in the moonhght, and how the}^ 
would have stared in the Strand ! Ay, or in Leicestershire, 
where I warrant such a horse and rider are not often visible ! 
The shovel stirrups are deucedly short ; the clumsy leathers cut 



388 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

the shins of some equestrians abominablj^ ; 3^011 sit over 5^our 
horse as it were on a tower, from which the descent would be 
very easy, but for the big peak of the saddle. A good way for 
the inexperienced is to put a stick or umbrella across the saddle 
peak again, so that it is next to impossible to go over your 
horse's neck. I found this a vast comfort in going down the 
hills, and recommend it conscientiously to other dear simple 
brethren of the city. 

Peaceful men, we did not ornament our girdles with pistols, 
yataghans, &c., such as some pilgrims appeared to bristle all 
over with ; and as a lesson to such rash people, a story may be 
told w^hich was narrated to us at Jerusalem, and carries a whole- 
some moral. The Honorable Hoggin Armer, who was lately 
travelling in the East, wore about his stomach two brace of 
pistols, of such exquisite finish and make, that a Sheikh, in the 
Jericho country, robbed him merely for the sake of the pistols. 
I don't know whether he has told the story to his friends at 
home. 

Another story about Sheikhs may here be told apropos. 
That celebrated Irish Peer, Lord Oldgent (who was distin- 
guished in the Buckinghamshire Dragoons), having paid a sort 
of black mail to the Sheikh of Jericho countr}^ was suddenly 
set upon by another Sheikh, who claimed to be the real Jeri- 
chonian governor ; and these twins quarrelled over the bod}^ of 
Lord Oldgent, as the widows for the innocent baby before Solo- 
mon. There was enough for both — but these digressions are 
interminable. 

The part}^ got under way at near four o'clock : the ladies in 
the litter, the FrenGhfemme-de-chambre manfully caracoling on 
a gray horse ; the cavaliers, like your humble servant, on their 
high saddles ; the domestics, flunkies, guides, and grooms, on 
all sorts of animals, — some fourteen in all. Add to these, two 
most grave and statel}- Arabs in white beards, white turbans, 
white haicks and raiments ; sabres curling round their military 
thighs, and immense long guns at their backs. More venerable 
warriors I never saw ; they went by the side of the litter soberly 
prancing. AVhen we emerged from the steep clattering streets 
of the cit}'' into the gray plains, lighted by the moon and star- 
light, these militaries rode onward, leading the way through 
the huge avenues of strange diabolical-looking prickl^^ pears 
(plants that look as if they had grown in Tartarus), by which 
the first mile or two of route from the city is bounded ; and as 
the dawn arose before us, exhibiting first a streak of gray, then 
of green, then of red in the sky, it was fine to see these martial 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 389 

figures defined against the rising light. The sight of that little 
cavalcade, and of the nature around it, will always remain with 
me, I think, as one of the freshest and most dehghtful sensa- 
tions I have enjo3'ed since the da}' I first saw Calais pier. It 
was full day when they gave their horses a drink at a large 
pretty' Oriental fountain, and then presently we entered the open 
plain — the famous plain of Sharon — so fruitful in roses once, 
now hardl}' cultivated, but always beautiful and noble. 

Here presentl}", in the distance, we saw another cavalcade 
pricking over the plahi. Our two white warriors spread to the 
^'ight and left, and galloped to reconnoitre. We, too, put our 
steeds to the canter, and handling our umbrellas as Richard did 
his lance against Saladin, went undaunted to challenge this 
caravan. The fact is, we could distinguish that it was formed 
of the party of our pious friends the Poles, and we hailed them 
with cheerful shouting, and presently the two caravans joined 
company, and scoured the plain at the rate of near four miles 
per hour. The horse-master, a courier of this company, rode 
three miles for our one. He was a broken-nosed Arab, with 
pistols, a sabre, a fusee, a j^ellow Damascus cloth flapping over 
his bead, and his nose ornamented with diachylon. He rode 
a hog-necked gray Arab, bristling over with harness, and 
jumped, and whirled, and reared, and halted, to the admiration 
of all. 

Scarce had the diachylonian Arab finished his evolutions, 
when lo ! yet another cloud of dust was seen, and another party 
of armed and glittering horsemen appeared. The}- , too, were 
led by an Arab, who was followed by two janissaries, with 
silver maces shining in the sun. 'Twas the party of the new 
American Consul-General of Syria and Jerusalem, hastening to 
that city, with the inferior consuls of Ramleh and Jaffa to escort 
him. He expects to see the Millennium in three 3'ears, and has 
accepted the office of consul at Jerusalem, so as to be on the 
spot in readiness. 

When the diachylon Arab saw the American Arab, he 
straightway galloped his steed towards him, took his pipe, 
which he delivered at his adversar}^ in guise of a jereed, and 
galloped round and round, and in and out, and there and back 
again, as in a play of war. The American replied in a similar 
playful ferocit}' — the two warriors made a little tournament 
for us there on the plains before Jaffa, in the which diachylon 
being a little worsted, challenged his adversary to a race, and 
fled awa^^ on his gray, the American fpllowing on his bay. Here 



390 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

poor sticking-plaster was again worsted, the Yankee contemptu- 
ously riding round him, and then declining further exercise. 

What more could mortal man want? A troop of knights 
and paladins could have done no more. In no page of Walter 
Scott have I read a scene more fair and sparkling. The sober 
warriors of our escort did not join in the gambols of the 3'oung 
men. There they rode soberly, in their white turbans, by their 
ladies' litter, their long guns rising up behind them. 

There was no lack of company along the road : donkeys 
numberless, camels by twos and threes ; now a mule-driver, 
trudging along the road, chanting a most queer melody ; now a 
lady, in white veil, black mask, and yellow papooshes, bestrid- 
ing her ass, and followed by her husband, — met us on the way ; 
and most people gave a salutation. Presently we saw Ramleh, 
in a smoking mist, on the plain before us, flanked to the right 
by a tall lonely tower, that might have held the bells of some 
moutier of Caen or Evreux. As we entered, about three hours 
and a half after starting, among the white domes and stone 
houses of the little town, we passed the place of tombs. Two 
women were sitting on one of them, — the one bending her 
head towards the stone, and rocking to and fro, and moaning 
out a very sweet, pitiful lamentation. The American consul 
invited us to breakfast at the house of his subaltern, the hos- 
pitable one-e3'ed Armenian, who represents the United States at 
Jaffa. The stars and stripes were flaunting over his terraces, 
to which we ascended, leaving our horses to the care of a mul- 
titude of roaring, ragged Arabs beneath, who took charge of 
and fed the animals, though I can't say in the least wh}^ ; but, 
in the same way as getting off mj- horse on entering Jerusalem, 
I gave the rein into the hand of the first person near me, and 
have never heard of the worth}' brute since. At the American 
consul's we were served first with rice soup in pishpash, flavored 
with cinnamon and spice ; then with boiled mutton, then with 
stewed ditto and tomatoes ; then with fowls swimming in grease ; 
then with brown ragouts belabored with onions ; then with a 
smoking pilaff of rice : several of which dishes I can pronounce 
to be of excellent material and flavor. When the gentry had 
concluded this repast, it was handed to a side-table, where the 
commonalt}' speedily discussed it. We left them licking their 
fingers as we hastened away upon the second part of the 
ride. 

And as we quitted Ramleh, the scener}- lost that sweet and 
peaceful look which characterizes the pretty plain we had trav- 
ersed ; and the sun, too, rising in the heaven, dissipated all 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 391 

those fresh, beautiful tints in which God's world is clothed of 
earl^' morning, and which cit}^ people have so seldom the chance 
of beholding. The plain over which we rode looked 3-ellow and 
gloom}' ; the cultivation little or none ; the land across the road- 
side fringed, for the most part, with straggling wild carrot 
plants ; a patch of green onty here and there. We passed sev- 
eral herds of lean, small, well-conditioned cattle : many flocks 
of black goats, tended now and then by a ragged negro shep- 
herd, his long gun slung over his back, his hand over his eyes 
to shade them as he stared at our little cavalcade. Most of the 
half-naked countryfolks we met, had this dismal appendage 
to Eastern rustic life ; and the weapon could hardty be one of 
mere defence, for, beyond the faded skull-cup, or tattered coat 
of blue or dirt}^ white, the brawn}', brown-chested, solemn-look- 
ing fellows had nothing seemingly to guard. As before, there 
was no lack of travellers on the road : more donkej's trotted b}^, 
looking sleek and strong; camels singly and by pairs, laden 
with a little humble ragged merchandise, on their way between 
the two towns. About noon we halted eagerly at a short dis- 
tance from an Arab village and well, where all were glad of a 
drink of fresh water. A village of beavers, or a colony of ants, 
make habitations not unlike these dismal huts piled together on 
the plain here. There were no single huts along the whole line 
of road ; poor and wretched as they are, the Fellahs huddle all 
together for protection from the other thieves their neighbors. 
The government (which we restored to them) has no power to 
protect them, and is only strong enough to rob them. The 
women, with their long blue gowns and ragged veils, came to 
and fro with pitchers on their heads. Rebecca had such an one 
when she brought drink to the lieutenant of Abraham. The 
boys came staring round, bawling after us with their fathers for 
the inevitable backsheesh. The village dogs barked round the 
flocks, as the}' were driven to water or pasture. 

We saw a gloomy, not very lofty-looking ridge of hills in 
front of us ; the highest of which the guide pointing out to us, 
told us that from it we should see Jerusalem. It looked very 
near, and we all set up a trot of enthusiasm to get into this hill 
country. 

But that burst of enthusiasm (it may have carried us nearly 
a quarter of a mile in three minutes) was soon destined to be 
checked by the disagreeable nature of the countr}' we had to 
traverse. Before we got to the real mountain district, we were 
in a manner prepared for it, by the mounting and descent of 
several lonel}' outlying hills, up and down which our rough 



392 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

ston.y track wound. Then we entered the hill district, and our 
path lay through the clattering bed of an ancient stream, whose 
brawling waters have rolled away into the past, along with the 
fierce and turbulent race who once inhabited these saA^age hills. 
There ma}' have been cultivation here two thousand 3'ears ago. 
The mountains, or huge stony mounds environing this rough 
path, have level ridges all the way up to their summits ; on 
these parallel ledges there is still some verdure and soil : when 
water flowed here, and the countr^^ was thronged with that 
extraordinar}' population, which, according to the Sacred His- 
tories, was crowded into the region, these mountain steps may 
have been gardens and vineyards, such as we see now thriving 
along the hills of the Rhine. Now the district is quite deserted, 
and you ride among what seem to be so many petrified water- 
falls. We saw no animals moving among the stony brakes ; 
scarcel}' even a dozen little birds in the whole course of the 
ride. The sparrows are all at Jerusalem, among the house- 
tops, where their ceaseless chirping and twittering forms the 
most cheerful sound of the place. 

The company of Poles, the company of Oxford men, and the 
little American army, travelled too quick for our caravan, which 
was made to follow the slow progress of the ladies' litter, and 
we had to make the journe}^ through the mountains in a yery 
small number. Not one of our party had a single weapon more 
dreadful than an umbrella : and a couple of Arabs, wickedly 
inclined, might have brought us all to the halt, and rified every 
carpet-bag and pocket belonging to us. Nor can I say that 
we journe^^ed without certain qualms of fear. When swarth}' 
fellows, with girdles full of pistols and yataghans, passed us 
without unshnging their long guns: — when scowling camel- 
riders, with awful long bending lances, decorated with tufts 
of rags, or savage plumes of scarlet feathers, went by without 
molestation, I think we were rather glad that they did not stop 
and parle}' : for, after all, a British lion with an umbrella is no 
match for an Arab with his infernal long gun. What, too, 
would have become of our women ? So we tried to think that 
it was entirely out of anxiety for them that we were inclined to 
push on. 

There is a shad}^ resting-place and village in the midst of 
the mountain district, where the travellers are accustomed to 
halt for an hour's repose and refreshment ; and the other cara- 
vans were just quitting this spot, having enjoyed its cool shades 
and waters, when we came up. Should we stop? Regard for 
the ladies (of course no other earthly consideration) made us 



FROM .CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 393 

say, " No ! '' What admirable self-denial and chivalrous de- 
votion ! So our poor devils of mules and horses got no rest 
and no water, oui' panting Htter-men no breathing time, 
and we staggered desperatel}^ after the procession ahead of 
US. It wound up the mountain in front of us : the Poles 
with their guns and attendants, the American with his janis- 
saries ; fifty or sixty^all riding slowly like the procession in 
" Bluebeard." 

But alas, they headed us very soon ; when we got up the 
weary hill they were all out of sight. Perhaps thoughts of Fleet 
Street did cross the minds of some of us then, and a vague 
desire to see a few policemen. The district now seemed peo- 
pled, and with an ugly race. Savage personages peered at us 
out of huts, and grim holes in the rocks. The mules began to 
loiter most abominably — water the muleteers must have — 
and, behold, we came to a pleasant-looking village of trees 
standing on a hill ; children were shaking figs from the trees — 
women were going about — before us was the mosque of a holy 
man — the village, looking like a collection of little forts, rose 
up on the hill to our right, with a long view of the fields and 
gardens stretching from it, and camels arriving with their bur- 
dens. Here we must stop ; Paolo, the chief servant, knew the 
Sheikh of the village — he very good man — give him water 
and supper — water very good here — in fact we began to think 
of the propriety of halting here for the night, and making our 
entry into Jerusalem on the next day. 

A man on a handsome horse dressed in red came prancing 
up to us, looking hard at the ladies in the litter, and passed 
away. Then two others sauntered up, one handsome, and 
dressed in red too, and he stared into the litter without cere- 
mony, began to play with a little dog that lay there, asked if 
we were Ingiees, and was answered bj^ me in the affirmative. 
Paolo had brought the water, the most delicious draught in the 
world. The gentlefolks had had some, the poor muleteers were 
longing for it. The French maid, the courageous Yictoire 
(never since the days of Joan of Arc has there surely been a 
more gallant and virtuous female of France) refused the drink ; 
when suddenly a servant of the party scampers up to his master 
and says ; " Abou Gosh sa3's the ladies must get out and show 
themselves to the women of the village ! " 

It was Abou Gosh liimself, the redoubted robber Sheikh 
about whom we had been laughing and crying "Wolf! "all 
day. Never was seen such a skurry ! ^' March!" was the 
instant order given. When Victoire heard who it was and the 



394 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

message, 3^ou should have seen how she changed countenance ; 
trembling for her vu'tue m the ferocious clutches of a Gosh. 
" Un verre d'eau pour 1' amour de Dieu ! " gasped she, and was 
ready to faint on her saddle. " Ne buvez plus, Victoire ! " 
screamed a little fellow of our party. " Push on, push on ! " 
cried one and all. " What's the matter ! " exclaimed the ladies 
in the litter, as the}^ sav/ themselves suddenl}- jogging on again. 
But we took care not to tell them what had been the designs 
of the redoubtable Abou Gosh. Away then we went — Vic- 
toire was saved — and her mistresses rescued from dangei h 
they knew not of, until thej- were a long way out of the vil- 
lage. 

Did he intend insult or good- will? Did Victoire escape the 
odious chance of becoming Madame Abou Gosh? Or did the 
mountain chief simply propose to be hospitable after his fash- 
ion? I think the latter was his desire ; if the former had been 
his' wish, a half-dozen of his long guns could have been up with 
us in a minute, and had all our party at their mercy. But now, 
for the sake of the mere excitement, the incident was, I am 
sorr}'' to Sixy, rather a pleasant one than otherwise : especially 
for a traveller who is in the happy condition of being able to 
sing before robbers, as is the case with the writer of the 
present. 

A little way out of the land of Goshen we came upon a long 
stretch of gardens and vineyards, slanting towards the setting 
sun, which illuminated numberless golden clusters of the most 
delicious grapes, of which we stopped and partook. Such 
grapes were never before tasted ; water so fresh as that which 
a countryman fetched for us from a well never sluiced parched 
throats before. It was the ride, the sun, and above all Abou 
Gosh, who made that refreshment so sweet, and hereby I offer 
him my best thanks. Presently, in the midst of a most diaboli- 
cal ravine, down which our horses went sliding, w^e heard the 
evening gun ; it was fired from Jerusalem. The twihght is brief 
in this country, and in a few minutes the landscape was gray 
round about us, and the sky lighted up by a hundred thousand 
stars, which made the night beautiful. 

Under this superb canopy we rode for a couple of hours to 
our journey's end. The mountains round about us dark, lonely, 
and sad ; the landscape as we saw it at night (it is not more 
cheerful in the daytime), the most solemn and forlorn I have 
ever seen. The feelings of almost terror with which, riding 
through the night, we approached this awful place, the centre 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 395 

of the world's past and future history, have no need to be noted 
down here. The recollection of those sensations must remain 
with a man as long as his memory lasts ; and he should think 
of them as often, perhaps, as he should talk of them little. 



CHAPTER Xin. 

JERUSALEM. 

The ladies of our party found excellent quarters in readiness 
for them at the Greek convent in the cit}^ ; where air}' rooms, 
and plentiful meals, and wines and sweetmeats deUcate and 
abundant, were provided to cheer them after the fatigues of 
their journe}'. I don't know whether the worthy fathers of the 
convent share in the good things which they lavish on their 
guests ; but the}- look as if they do. Those whom we saw bore 
every sign of easy conscience and good living ; there were a 
pair of strong, rosy, greas}^, lazj^ lay-brothers, dawdUng in the 
sun on the convent terrace, or peering over the parapet into 
the street below, whose looks gave one a notion of anything 
but asceticism. 

In the principal room of the strangers' house (the la}' trav- 
eller is not admitted to dweM in the sacred interior of the con- 
vent), and over the building, the Russian double-headed eagle 
is displayed. The place is under the patronage of the Emperor 
Nicholas : an Imperial Prince has staved in these rooms : the 
Russian consul performs a great part in the citj^ ; and a con- 
siderable annual stipend is given b}^ the Emperor towards the 
maintenance of the great establishment in Jerusalem. The 
Great Chapel of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is by far 
the richest, in point of furniture, of all the places of worship 
under that roof. We were in Russia, when we came to visit 
our friends here ; under the protection of the Father of the 
Church and the Imperial Eagle ! This butcher and tyrant, 
who sits on his throne only through the crime of those who 
held it before him — every step in whose pedigree is stained 
by some horrible mark of murder, parricide, adultery — this 
padded and whiskered pontiff — who rules in his jack-boots 
over a sj'stem of spies and soldiers, of deceit, ignorance, dis- 
soluteness, and brute force, such as surely the history of the 



396 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

world never told of before — has a tender interest in the welfare 
of his spiritual children : in the Eastern Church ranks after 
divinit}', and is worshipped bj millions of men. A pious ex- 
emplar of Christianity trul}' ! and of the condition to which its 
union with politics has brought it ! Think of the rank to which 
he pretends, and gravely believes that he possesses, no doubt ! 
— think of those who assumed the same ultra-sacred character 
before him 1 — and then of the Bible and the Founder of the 
Religion, of which the Emperor assumes to be the chief priest 
and defender ! 

We had some Poles of our party ; but these poor fellows 
went to the Latin convent, declining to worship after the Em- 
peror's fashion. The next night after our arrival, two of them 
passed in the Sepulchre. There we saw them, more than once 
on subsequent visits, kneeling in the Latin Church before the 
pictures, or marching solemnl}' with candles in processions, or 
lying flat on the stones, or passionatelj" kissing the spots which 
their traditions have consecrated as the authentic places of the 
Saviour's sufferings. More honest or more civilized, or from 
opposition, the Latin fathers have long given up and disowned 
the disgusting mummery of the Eastern Fire — which lie the 
Greeks continue annually to tell. 

Their travellers' house and convent, though large and com- 
modious, are of a much poorer and shabbier condition than 
those of the Greeks. Both make believe not to take money ; 
but the traveller is expected to pay in each. The Latin fathers 
enlarge their means by a little harmless trade in beads and 
crosses, and mother-of-pearl shells, on which figures of saints 
are engraved ; and which they purchase from the manufac- 
turers, and vend at a small profit. The English, until of late, 
used to ]:)e quartered in these sham inns ; but last 3'ear two or 
three Maltese took houses for the reception of tourists, who 
can now be accommodated with cleanly and comfortable board, 
at a rate not too heavy for most pockets. 

To one of these we went ver^' gladl}' ; giving our horses the 
bridle at the door, which went off' of their own will to their 
stables, through the dark inextricable labyrinths of streets, 
archways, and alleys, which we had threaded after leaving the 
main street from the Jaffa Gate. There, there was still some 
life. Numbers of persons were collected at their doors, or 
smoking before the dingy coffee-houses, where singing and 
story-telling were going on ; but out of this great street every- 
thing was silent, and no sign of a light from the windows of 
the low houses which we passed. 



FROM COR^N^HILL TO CAIRO. 397 

We ascended from a lower floor up to a terrace, on which 
were several little domed chambers, or pavilions. From this 
terrace, whence we looked in the morning, a great part of the 
city spread before us : —white domes upon domes, and terraces 
of the same character as our own. Here and there, from 
amono- these whitewashed mounds round about, a mniaret rose, 
or a rare date-tree ; but the chief part of the vegetation near 
was that odious tree the prickly pear, - one huge green wart 
o-rowino- out of another, armed with spikes, as inhospitable as 
the aloe, without shelter or beauty. To the right the Mosque 
of Omar rose; the rising sun behind it. Yonder steep tor- 
tuous lane before us, flanked by ruined walls on either side, 
has borne, time out of mind, the title of Via Dolorosa ; and 
tradition has fixed the spots where the Saviour rested, bearing 
his cross to Calvary. But of the mountain, rising immediately 
in front of us, a few gray olive-trees speckUng the yellow side 
here and there, there can be no question. That is the Mount 
of Olives. Bethany lies beyond it. The most sacred eyes 
that ever looked on this world have gazed on those ridges : it 
was there He used to walk and teach. With shame and humil- 
ity one looks towards the spot where that inexpressible Love 
and Benevolence lived and breathed; where the great yearning 
heart of the Saviour interceded for all our race ; and whence 
the bigots and traitors of his day led him away to kill him ! 

That company of Jews whom we had brought with us from 
Constantinople, and who had cursed every delay on the route, 
not from impatience to view the Holy City, but from rage at 
beino- obliged to purchase dear provisions for their mainte- 
nanc°e on ship-board, made what bargains they best could at 
Jafl"a and journeyed to the Valley of Jehoshaphat at the 
cheapest rate. We saw the tall form of the old Polish Patri- 
arch, venerable in filth, stalking among the stinkuig ruins of 
the Jewish quarter. The sly old Rabbi, in the greasy folding 
hat, who would not pay to shelter his children from the storm 
ofl" Beyrout, greeted us in the bazaars ; the younger Rabbis 
were furbished up with some smartness. We met them on Sun- 
day at the kind of promenade by the walls of the Bethlehem 
Gate ; they were in company of some red-bearded co-religion- 
ists, smartly attired in Eastern raiment ; but their voice was 
the voice of the Jews of Berhn, and of course as we passed 
they were talking about so many hundert thaler. You rxiay 
track one of the people, and be sure to hear mention of that 
silver calf that they worship. 



398 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

The Englisli mission has been very unsuccessful with these 
reUgionists. I don't believe the Episcopal apparatus — the 
chaplains, and the colleges, and the beadles — have succeeded 
in converting a dozen of them ; and a sort of martyrdom is in 
store for the luckless Hebrew at Jerusalem who shall secede 
from his faith. Their old community spurn them with horror ; 
and I heard of the case of one unfortunate man, whose wife, 
in spite of her husband's change of creed, being resolved, like 
a true woman, to cleave to him, was spirited away from him in 
his absence ; was kept in privacy in the city, in spite of all ex- 
ertions of the mission, of the consul and the bishop, and the 
chaplains and the beadles ; was passed awa}^ from Jerusalem to 
Be}- rout, and thence to Constantinople ; and from Constanti- 
nople was whisked off into the Russian territories, where she 
still pines after her husband. May that unhappy convert find 
consolation away, from her. I could not help thinking, as my 
informant, an excellent and accompUshed gentleman of the 
mission, told me the story, that the Jews had done only what 
the Christians do under the same circumstances. The woman 
was the daughter of a most learned Rabbi, as I gathered. 
Suppose a daughter of the Rabbi of Exeter, or Canterbur}', 
were to marry a man who turned Jew, would not her Right 
Reverend Father be justified in taking her out of the power of 
a person likely to hurl her soul to perdition ? These poor con- 
verts should surely be sent away to England out of the way 
of persecution. We could not but feel a pity for them, as 
they sat there on their benches in the church conspicuous ; 
and thought of the scorn and contumely which attended them 
without, as they passed, in their European dresses and 
shaven beards, among their gristy, scowling, long-robed coun- 
trymen. 

As elsewhere in the towns I have seen, the Ghetto of Jeru- 
salem is pre-eminent in filth. The people are gathered round 
about the dung-gate of the city. Of a Friday you may hear 
their waiUngs and lamentations for the lost glories of their city. 
I think the Valley of Jehoshaphat is the most ghastly sight I 
have seen in the world. From all quarters they come hither 
to bury their dead. When his time is come yonder hoary old 
miser, with whom we made our voyage, will la}' his carcass to 
rest here. To do that, and to claw together money, has been 
the purpose of that strange, long life. 

We brought with us one of the gentlemen of the mission, a 
Hebrew convert, the Rev. Mr. E ; and lest I should be 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. o99 

supposed to speak with disrespect above of any of the converts 
of the Hebrew faith, let me mention this gentleman as the only 
one whom I had the fortune to meet on terms of intimac}'. I 
never saw a man whose outward conduct was more touching, 
whose sincerit}' was more evident, and whose religious feeling 
seemed more deep, real, and reasonable. 

Only a few feet off, the walls of the Anglican Church of Je- 
rusalem rise up from their foundations, on a picturesque open 
spot, in front of the Bethlehem Gate. The EngUsh bishop has 
his church hard by : and near it is the house where the Chris- 
tians of our denomination assemble and worship. 

There seem to be polyglot services here. I saw books of 
prayer, or Scripture, in Hebrew, Greek, and German : in which 
latter language Dr. Alexander preaches every Sunday. A gen- 
tleman who sat near me at church used all these books indif- 
ferently : reading the first lesson from the Hebrew book, and 
the second from the Greek. Here we all assembled on the 
Sunday after our arrival : it was aftecting to hear the music and 
language of our country sounding in this distant place ; to have 
the decent and manlj^ ceremonial of our service ; the prayers 
delivered in that noble language. Even that stout anti-prelatist, 
the American consul, who has left his house and fortune in 
America in order to witness the coming of the Millennium, who 
believes it to be so near that he has brought a dove with him from 
his native land (which bird he solemnly informed us was to sur- 
vive the expected Advent) , was affected by the good old words 
and service. He swa3^ed about and moaned in his place at vai-ious 
passages ; during the sermon he gave especial marks of sym- 
pathy and approbation. I never heard the service more excel- 
lently and impressively read than b}^ the Bishop's chaplain, 
Mr. Veitch. But it was the music that was most touching I 
thought, — the sweet old songs of home. 

There was a considerable company assembled : near a hun- 
dred people I should think. Our part}' made a large addition 
to the usual congregation. The Bishop's family is proverbially 
numerous : the consul, and the gentlemen of the mission, have 
wives, and children, and English establishments. These, and 
the strangers, occupied places down the room, to the right and 
left of the desk and communion-table. The converts, and the 
members of the college, in rather a scant}' number, faced the 
officiating clergyman ; before whom the silver maces of the jan- 
issaries were set up, as they set up the beadles' maces in 
England. 

I made many walks round the city to Olivet and Bethany, 



400 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

to the tombs of the kings, and the fountains sacred in story. 
These are green and fresh, but all the rest of the landscape 
seemed to me to be frightful. Parched mountains, with a gray 
bleak olive-tree trembling here and there ; savage ravines and val- 
lej^s, paved with tombstones — a landscape unspeakably ghastly 
and desolate, meet the eye wherever you wander round about the 
city. The place seems quite adapted to the events which are 
recorded in the Hebrew histories. It and they, as it seems 
to me, can never be regarded without terror. Fear and blood, 
crime and punishment, follow from page to page in frightful 
succession. There is not a spot at which you look, but some 
violent deed has been done there : some massacre has been 
committed, some victim has been murdered, some idol has been 
worshipped with bloody and dreadful rites. Not far from hence 
is the place where the Jewish conqueror fought for the posses- 
sion of Jerusalem. " The sun stood still, and hasted not to go 
down about a whole day ; " so that the Jews might have day- 
light to destroy the Amorites, whose iniquities were full, and 
whose land they were about to occupy. The fugitive heathen 
king, and his allies, were discovered in their hiding-place, 
and hanged: "and the children of Judah smote Jerusalem 
with the edge of the sword, and set the city on fire ; and 
they left none remaining, but utterly destroyed all that 
breathed." 

I went out at the Zion Gate, and looked at the so-called 
tomb of David. I had been reading all the morning in the 
Psalms, and his histor}' in Samuel and Kings. '-'• Bring thou 
down Shimei's hoar head to the grave with hlood''' are the last 
words of the dying monarch as recorded by the history. What 
the}^ call the tomb is now a crumbling old mosque ; from which 
Jew and Christian are excluded -alike. As I saw it, blazing in 
the sunshine, with the purple sk}^ behind it, the glare onl}' served 
to mark the surrounding desolation more clearlj'. The lonely 
walls and towers of the city rose hard bj'. Drearj' mountains, 
and declivities of naked stones, were round about : they are 
burrowed with holes in which Christian hermits lived and died. 
You see one green place far down in the valley : it is called 
En Rogel. Adonijah feasted there, who was killed by his 
brother Solomon, for asking for Abishag for wife. The Valley 
of Hinnom skirts the hill : the dismal ravine was a fruitful gar- 
den once. Ahaz, and the idolatrous kings, sacrificed to idols 
under the green trees there, and " caused their children to pass 
through the fire." On the mountain opposite, Solomon, witli 
the thousand women of his harem, worshipped the gods of all 




ACELDAMA. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 401 

their nations, " Awshtoreth," and ''Milcom, and Molech, the 
abomination of tlie Ammonites." An enormous charnel-house 
stands on the hill where the bodies of dead pilgrims used to be 
thrown ; and common belief has fixed upon this spot as the 
Aceldama, which Judas purchased with the price of his treason. 
Thus you go on from one gloom}' place to another, each seared 
with its bloody tradition. Yonder is the Temple, and you think 
of Titus's soldiery storming its flaming porches, and entering 
the city, in the savage defence of which two million human 
souls perished. It was on Mount Zion that Godfrey' and Tan- 
cred had their camp : when the Crusaders entered the mosque, 
they rode knee-deep in the blood of its defenders, and of the 
women and children who had fled thither for refuge : it was the 
victory of Joshua over again. Then, after three daj'S of butch- 
ery, they purified the desecrated mosque and went to prayer. 
In the centre of this history of crime rises up the Great Mur- 
der of all 

I need say no more about this gloomy landscape. After a 
man has seen it once, he never forgets it — the recollection of 
it seems to me to follow him like a remorse, as it were to im- 
plicate him in the awful deed which was done there. Oh ! with 
what unspeakable shame and terror should one think of that 
crime, and prostrate himself before the image of that Divine 
Blessed Sufferer. 

Of course the first visit of the traveller is to the famous 
Church of the Sepulchre. 

In the archway, leading from the street to the court and 
church, there is a Httle bazaar of Bethlehemites, who must in- 
terfere considerably with the commerce of the Latin fathers. 
These men bawl to you from their stalls, and hold up for your 
purchase their devotional baubles, — bushels of rosaries and 
scented beads, and carved mother-of-pearl shells, and rude 
stone salt-ccUars and figures. Now that inns are estabhshed, 
— envoys of these pedlars attend them on the arrival of stran- 
gers, squat all daj' on the terraces before your door, and pa- 
tiently entreat 3'ou to buy of their goods. Some worthies there 
are who drive a good trade by tattooing pilgrims with the five 
crosses, the arms of Jerusalem ; under which the name of the 
city is punctured in Hebrew, with the auspicious year of the 
Hadji's visit. Several of our fellow-travellers submitted to this 
queer operation, and will carry to their grave this relic of their 
journey. Some of them had engaged a servant, a man at Bey- 
rout, who had served as a lad on board an English ship in the 

26 



401' EASTERN SKETCHES. 

Mediterranean. Above his tattooage of the five crosses, the 
fellow had a picture of two hearts united, and the pathetic 
motto, " Betsy my dear." He had parted with Betsy my dear 
five 3^ears before at Malta. He had known a little English 
there, but had forgotten it. Betsy my dear was forgotten too. 
Only her name remained engraved with a vain simulacrum of 
constancy on the faithless rogue's skin : on which was now 
printed another token of equallj' effectual devotion. The beads 
and the tattooing, however, seem essential ceremonies attend- 
ant on the Christian pilgrim's visit ; for man}^ hundreds of 
years, doubtless, the palmers have carried off with them these 
simple reminiscences of the sacred city. That symbol has been 
engraven upon the arms of how many Princes, Knights, and 
Crusaders ! Don't you see a moral as applicable to them as to 
the swindling Beyrout horsebo}^? I have brought 3'ou back that 
cheap and wholesome apologue, in lieu of any of the Bethle- 
hemite shells and beads. 

After passing through the porch of the pedlars, j-ou come 
to the court-3^ard in front of the noble old towers of the Church 
of the Sepulchre, with pointed arches and Gothic traceries, 
rude, but rich and picturesque in design. Here crowds are 
waiting in the sun, until it shall please the Turkish guardians 
of the church-door to open. A swarm of beggars sit here per- 
manently : old tattered hags with long veils, ragged children, 
bUnd old bearded beggars, who raise up a chorus of prayers 
for money, holding out their wooden bowls, or clattering with 
their sticks on the stones, or pulling your coat-skirts and moan- 
ing and whining ; yonder sit a group of coal-black Coptish pil- 
grims, with robes, and turbans of dark blue, fumbhng their 
perpetual beads. A party of Arab Christians have come up 
from their tents or villages : the men half-naked, looking as if 
they were beggars, or banditti, upon occasion ; the women have 
flung then* head-cloths back, and are looking at the strangers 
under their tattooed eyebrows. As for the strangers, there is 
no need to describe them ; that figure of the EngUshman, with 
his hands in his pockets, has been seen all the world over : 
staring down the crater of Vesuvius, or into a Hottentot kraal 
— or at a pyramid, or a Parisian coffee-house, or an Esquimaux 
hut — with the same insolent calmness of demeanor. When 
the gates of the church are open, he elbows in among the first, 
and flings a few scornful piastres to the Turkish door-keeper ; 
and gazes round easil}- at the place, in v/hich people of ever\^ 
other nation in the world are in tears, or in rapture, or wonder. 
He has never seen the place until now, and looks as indifferent 




cS^^^^M^ 



ARAB FOUNTAIN IN JERUSALEM. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 403 

as the Turkish guardian who sits in the doorwa}', and swears 
at the people as they pour in. 

Indeed, I beUeve it is impossible for us to comprehend the 
source and nature of the Roman Catholic devotion. I once 
went into a church at Rome at the request of a Catholic friend, 
who described the interior to be so beautiful and glorious, that 
he thought (he said) it must be like heaven itself. I found 
walls hung with cheap stripes of pink and white calico, altars 
covered with artificial flowers, a number of wax-candles, and 
plenty of gilt-paper ornaments. The place seemed to me 
like a shabby theatre ; and here was my friend on his kne^s at 
ni}' side, plunged in a rapture of wonder and devotion. 

^ I could get no better impression out of this the most famous 
church in the world. The deceits are too open and flagrant ; 
the inconsistencies and contrivances too monstrous. It is hard 
even to sympathize with persons who receive them as genuine ; 
and though (as I know and saw in the case of m}^ friend at 
Rome) the believer's hfe may be passed in the purest exercise 
of faith and charit}", it is difficult even to give him credit for 
honest}', so barefaced seem the impostures which he professes 
to believe and reverence. It costs one no small eflfort even to 
admit the possibilit}' of a Catholic's credulity : to share in his 
rapture and devotion is still further out of your i)ower ; and I 
could get from this church no other emotions but those of shame 
and pain. 

The legends with which the Greeks and Latins have gar- 
nished the spot have no more sacredness for you than the 
hideous, unreal, barbaric pictures and ornaments which the}^ 
have lavished on it. Look at the fervor with which pilgrims 
kiss and weep over a tawdr}^ Gothic painting, scarceh^ better 
fashioned than an idol in a South Sea Morai. The histories 
which they are called upon to reverence are of the same period 
and order, — savage Gothic caricatures. In either a saint 
appears in the costume of the middle ages, and is made to 
accommodate himself to the fashion of the tenth century. 

The different churches battle for the possession of the vari- 
ous relics. The Greeks show you the Tomb of Melchisedec, 
while the Armenians possess the Chapel of the Penitent Thief; 
the poor Copts (with their little cabin of a chapel) can 3'et 
boast of possessing the thicket in which Abraham caught the 
Ram, which was to serve as the vicar of Isaac ; the Latins 
point out the Pillar to which the Lord was bound. The place 
of the Invention of the Sacred Cross, the Fissure in the Rock 
of Golgotha, the Tomb of Adam himself — are all here within 



404 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

a few yards' space. You mount a few steps, and are told it is 
Calvary upon wliich j^ou stand. All this in the midst of flaring 
candles, reeking incense, savage pictures of Scripture story, or 
portraits of kings who have been benefactors to the various 
chapels ; a din and clatter of strange people, — these weeping, 
bowing, kissing, — those utterl}' indifferent ; and the priests 
clad in outlandish robes, snuffling and chanting incomprehen- 
sible litanies, robing, disrobing, lighting up candles or extin- 
guishing them, advancing, retreating, bowing with all sorts of 
unfamiliar genuflexions. Had it pleased the inventors of the 
Sepulchre topography to have fixed on fifty more spots of 
ground as the places of the events of the sacred story, the pil- 
grim would have believed just as now. The priest's authority 
has so mastered his faith, that it accommodates itself to any 
demand upon it ; and the English stranger looks on the scene, 
for the first time, with a feeling of scorn, bewilderment, and 
shame at that grovelling credulity, those strange rites and cere- 
monies, that almost confessed imposture. 

Jarred and distracted by these, the Church of the Holy 
Sepulchre, for some time, seems to an Englishman the least 
sacred spot about Jerusalem. It is the lies, and the legends, 
and the priests, and their quarrels, and their ceremonies, which 
keep the Holy Place out of sight. A man has not leisure to 
view it, for the brawling of the guardians of the spot. The 
Roman conquerors, thej^ say, raised up a statue of Venus in 
this sacred place, intending to destroy all memor}^ of it. I don't 
think the heathen was as criminal as the Christian is now. To 
deny and disbelieve, is not so bad as to make belief a ground 
to cheat upon. The liar Ananias perished for that; and yet 
out of these gates, where angels ma3' have kept watch — out of 
the tomb of Christ — Christian priests issue with a lie in their 
hands. What a place to choose for imposture, good God ! to 
sull}^, with brutal struggles for self-aggrandizement, or shameful 
schemes of gain ! 

The situation of the Tomb (into which, be it authentic or 
not, no man can enter without a shock of breathless fear, and 
deep and awful self-humiliation,) must have struck all travellers. 
It stands in the centre of the arched rotunda, which is common 
to all denominations, and from which branch off the various 
chapels belonging to each particular sect. In the Coptic Chapel 
I saw one coal-black Copt, in blue robes, cowering in the little 
Cabin, surrounded by dingy lamps, barbarous pictures, and 
cheap, faded trumper3^ In the Latin Church there was no 
service going on, only two fathers dusting the mouldy gewgaws 




THE FOLK LEADERS OF THE FIKST CRUSADE 




FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 405 

along the brown walls, and laughing to one another. The 
gorgeous church of the Fire impostors, hard by, was alwaj's 
more full}' attended ; as was that of their wealth}^ neighbors, 
the Armenians. These three main sects hate each other ; their 
quarrels are interminable ; each bribes and intrigues with the 
heathen lords of the soil, to the prejudice of his neighbor. Now 
it is the Latins who interfere, and allow the common church 
to go to ruin, because the Greeks purpose to roof it ; now the 
Greeks demolish a monastery on Mount Olivet, and leave the 
ground to the Turks, rather than allow the Armenians to pos- 
sess it. On another occasion, the Greeks having mended the Ar- 
menian steps, which led to the (so-called) Cave of the Nativity at 
Bethlehem, the latter asked for permission to destro}^ the work 
of the Greeks, and did so. And so round this sacred spot, the 
centre of Christendom, the representatives of the three great 
sects worship under one roof, and hate each other ! 

Above the Tomb of the Saviour, the cupola is open, and you 
see the blue sky overhead. Which of the builders was it that 
had the grace to leave that under the high protection of heaven, 
and not confine it under the mouldering old domes and roofs, 
which cover so much selfishness, and uncharitableness, and im- 
posture ! 

We went to Bethlehem, too ; and saw the apocryphal won- 
ders there. 

Five miles' ride brings you from Jerusalem to it, over naked 
wav}' hills ; the aspect of which, however, grows more cheerful 
as you approach the famous village. We passed the Convent 
of Mar Elyas on the road, walled and barred like a fort. In 
spite of its strength, however, it has more than once been 
stormed by the Arabs, and the luckless fathers within put to 
death. Hard by was Rebecca's Well : a dead body was lying 
there, and crowds of male and female mourners dancing and 
howUng round it. Now and then a little troop of savage 
scowling horsemen — a shepherd driving his black sheep, his 
gun over his shoulder — a troop of camels — or of women, with 
long blue robes and white veils, bearing pitchers, and staring 
at the strangers with their great solemn eyes — or a company 
of laborers, with their donkeys, bearing grain or grapes to the 
cit}', — met us and enlivened the little ride. It was a bus}' and 
cheerful scene. The Church of the Nativity, with the adjoining 
Convents, forms a vast and noble Christian structure. A party 
of travellers were going to the Jordan that day, and scores of 
their followers — of the robbing Arabs, who profess to protect 



406 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

them, (magnificent figures some of tliem, witli flowing haicks 
and turbans, with long guns and scimitars, and wretched horses, 
covered with gaudj^ trappings,) were standing on the broad 
pavement before the Uttle Convent gate. It was such a scene 
as Cattermole might paint. Knights and Crusaders ma}' have 
witnessed a similar one. You could fanc}' them issuing out of 
the narrow little portal, and so greeted by the swarms of swarthy 
clamorous women and merchants and children. 

The scene within the building was of the same Gothic char- 
acter. We were entertained b}' the Superior of the Greek Con- 
vent, in a fine refector}^, with ceremonies and hospitahties that 
pilgrims of the middle ages might have witnessed. We were 
shown over the magnificent Barbaric Church, visited of course 
the Grotto where the Blessed Nativity is said to have taken 
place, and the rest of the idols set up for worship bj' the clums}^ 
legend. When the visit was concluded, the partj' going to the 
Dead Sea filed oflf M^th their armed attendants ; each individual 
traveller making as brave a show as he could, and personally 
accoutred with warlike swords and pistols. The picturesque 
crowds, and the Arabs and the horsemen, in the sunshine : the 
noble old convent, and the gra3^-bearded priests, with their 
feast ; and the church, and its pictures and columns, and in- 
cense ; the wide brown hills spreading round the village ; with 
the accidents of the road, — flocks and shepherds, wells and 
funerals, and camel-trains, — have left on n\y mind a brilliant, 
romantic, and cheerful picture. But you, Dear M , with- 
out visiting the place, have imagined one far finer ; and Beth- 
lehem, where the Holy Child was born, and the angels sang, 
" Glor}^ to God in the highest, and on earth peace and good- 
will towards men," is the most sacred and beautiful spot in the 
earth to you. 

B}^ far the most comfortable quarters in Jerusalem are those 
of the Armenians, in their convent of St. James. Wherever 
we have been, these Eastern quakers look grave, and jollj', and 
sleek. Their convent at Mount Zion is big enough to contain 
two or three thousand of their faithful ; and their church is 
ornamented by the most rich and hideous gifts ever devised b}^ 
uncouth piety. Instead of a bell, the fat monks of the convent 
beat huge noises on a board, and drub the faithful in to prayers. 
I never saw men more laz}' and rosy, than these reverend 
fathers, kneeling in their comfortable matted church, or sitting 
in eas}' devotion. Pictures, images, gilding, tinsel, wax-candles, 
twinkle all over the place ; and ten thousand ostrichs' eggs (or 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 407 

any lesser number 3^011 ma}' allot) dangle from the vaulted ceil- 
ing. There were great numbers of people at worship in this 
gorgeous church ; they went on their knees, kissing the walls 
with much fervor, and pacing reverence to the most precious 
relic of the convent, — the chair of St. James, their patron, the 
first Bishop of Jerusalem. 

The chair pointed out with greatest pride in the church of 
the Latin Convent, is that shabby red damask one appropriated 
to the French Consul, — the representative of the king of that 
nation, — and the protection which it has from time immemorial 
accorded to the Christians of the Latin rite in Syria. All 
French writers and travellers speak of this protection with 
dehghtful complacency. Consult the French books of travel on 
the subject, and any Frenchman whom 3'ou ma^- meet : he sa3's, 
" Z« France^ Monsieur^ de tous les temps protege les Chretiens 
d' Orient ; " and the little fellow looks round the church with a 
sweep of the arm, and protects it accordingl3^ It is bon ton for 
them to go in processions ; and 3'ou see them on such errands, 
marching with long candles, as gravely as may be. But I have 
never been able to edif3^ m3"self with their devotion ; and the 
religious outpourings of Lamartine and Chateaubriand, which 
we have all been reading apropos of the journey we are to make, 
have inspired me with an emotion anything but respectful. 
*' Voyez comme 31. de Chateaubriand prie Dieu^' the Viscount's 
eloquence seems always to sa3\ There is a sanctified grimace 
about the little French pilgrim which it is ver}- difficult to con- 
template gravely. 

The pictures, images, and ornaments of the principal Latin 
convent are quite mean and poor, compared to the wealth of 
the Armenians. The convent is spacious, but squalid. Many 
hopping and crawling plagues are said to attack the skins of 
pilgrims who sleep there. It is laid out in courts and galleries, 
the mouldy doors of which are decorated with twopennny pic- 
tures of favorite saints and martyrs : and so great is the shab- 
biness and laziness, that you might fanc3" yourself in a convent 
in Italy. Brown-clad fathers, dirty, bearded, and sallow, go 
gliding about the corridors. The relic manufactory before men- 
tioned carries on a considerable business, and despatches bales 
of shells, crosses, and beads to believers in Europe. These 
constitute the chief revenue of the convent now. La France is 
no longer the most Christian kingdom, and her protection of 
the Latins is not good for much since Charles X. was expelled ; 
and Spain, which used likewise to be generous on occasions, 
(the gifts, arms, candlesticks, baldaquins of the Spanish sover- 



408 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

eigns figure pretty frequentlj' in the various Latin chapels,) has 
been stingj^ since the late disturbances, the spoUation of the 
clergy, &c. After we had been taken to see the humble curi- 
osities of the place, the Prior treated us in his wooden parlor 
with little glasses of pink Rosolio, brought with many bows and 
genuflexions b}' his reverence the convent butler. 

After this communit}- of holy men, the most important per- 
haps is the American Convent, a Protestant congregation of 
Independents chiefly, who deliver tracts, propose to make con- 
verts, have meetings of their own, and also swell the little con- 
gregation that attends the Anglican service. I have mentioned 
our fellow-traveller, the Consul-General for Syria of the United 
States. He was a tradesman, who had made a considerable for- 
tune, and lived at a country-house in comfortable retirement. 
But his opinion is, that the prophecies of Scripture are about 
to be accomplished ; that the day of the return of the Jews is 
at hand, and the glorification of the restored Jerusalem. He 
is to witness this — he and a favorite dove with which he trav- 
els ; and he forsook home and comfortable countr3^-house, in 
order to make this journey. He has no other knowledge of 
Sj^ria but what he derives from the prophecy ; and this (as he 
takes the office gratis) has been considered a sufficient reason 
for his appointment by the United States Government. As 
soon as he arrived, he sent and demanded an interview with 
the Pasha ; explained to him his interpretation of the Apoca- 
l^'pse, in which he has discovered that the Five Powers and 
America are about to intervene in Syrian aff'airs, and the infal- 
lible return of the Jews to Palestine. The news must have 
astonished the Lieutenant of the Sublime Porte ; and since the 
days of the Kingdom of Munster, under his Anabaptist Majesty, 
John of Lej'den, I doubt whether any Government has received 
or appointed so queer an ambassador. The kind, worthy, 
simple man took me to his temporary consulate-house at the 
American Missionary Establishment ; and, under pretence of 
treating me to white wine, expounded his ideas ; talked of fu- 
turity as he would about an article in The Times ; and had no 
more doubt of seeing a divine kingdom established in Jeru- 
salem than you that there will be a levee next spring at St. 
James's. The little room in which we sat was padded with 
missionary tracts, but I heard of scarce any converts — not 
more than are made by our own Episcopal establishment. 

But if the latter's religious victories are small, and very 
few people are induced by the American tracts, and the English 
preaching and catechising, to forsake their own manner of 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 



409 



worshipping the Divine Being in order to follow onrs ; j^et 
surel}' our religious colony of men and women can't fail to do 
good, by the sheer force of good example, pure hfe, and kind 
offices. The ladies of the mission have numbers of clients, of 
all persuasions, in the town, to whom the}' extend their chari- 
ties. Each of their houses is a model of neatness, and a dis- 
pensarj' of gentle kindnesses ; and the ecclesiastics have formed 
a modest centre of civilization in the place. A dreary joke was 
made in the House of Commons about Bishop Alexander and 
the Bishopess his lady, and the Bishoplings, his numerous 
children, who were said to have scandalized the people of Jeru- 
salem. That sneer evidentl}' came from the Latins and Greeks ; 
for what could the Jews and Turks care because an English 
clerg3'man had a wife and children as their own priests have ? 
There was no sort of ill-will exhibited towards them, as far as I 
could learn ; and I saw the Bishop's children riding about the 
town as safel}' as they could about H3'de Park. All Europeans, 
indeed, seemed to me to be received with forbearance, and 
almost courtesy, within the walls. As I was going about mak- 
ing sketches, the people would look on very good-humoredly, 
without offering the least interruption ; nay, two or three were 
quite read}^ to stand still for such a humble portrait as my 
pencil could make of them ; and the sketch done, it was 
passed from one person to another, each making his comments, 
and signifying a very polite approval. Here are a pair of 
them, Fath Allah and 
Ameenut Daoodee 
his father, horse-deal- 
ers by trade, who 
came and sat with 
us at the inn, and 
smoked pipes (the 
sun being down) , 
while the original of 
this masterpiece was 
made. With the 
Arabs outside the 
walls, however, and 
the freshly arriving 
country -people, this 
politeness was not 
so much exhibited. 
There was a certain 
tattooed girl, with 




410 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

black e3'es and huge silver ear rings, and a chin delicatety 
picked out with blue, who formed one of a group of women 
outside the great convent, whose likeness I longed to carry off; 
— there was a woman with a little child, with wondering eyes, 
drawing water at the pool of Siloam, in such an attitude and 
dress as Rebecca may have had when Isaac's lieutenant asked 
her for drink : — both of these parties standing still for half 
a minute, at the next cried out for backsheesh ; and not content 
with the five piastres w^hich I gave them individually, screamed 
out for more, and summoned their friends, who screamed out 
backsheesh too. I was pursued into the convent by a dozen 
hov/ling women calling for pay, barring the door against them, 
to the astonishment of the worthy papa who kept it ; and at 
Miriam's Well the women were joined by a man with a large 
stick, who backed their petition. But him we could afford to 
laugh at, for we were two, and had sticks hkewise. 

In the village of Siloam I would not recommend the artist 
to loiter. A colony of ruffians inhabit the dismal place, who 
have guns as well as sticks at need. Their dogs howl after the 
strangers as they pass through ; and over the parapets of their 
walls you are saluted by the scowls of a villanous set of coun- 
tenances, that it is not good to see with one pair of eyes. They 
shot a man at mid-day at a few hundred yards from the gates 
while we were at Jerusalem, and no notice was taken of the 
murder. Hordes of Arab robbers infest the neighborhood of 
the city, with the Sheikhs of whom travellers make terms when 
minded to pursue their journe}^ I never could understand why 
the walls stopped these warriors if thej^ had a mind to plunder 
the cit}'', for there are but a hundred and fifty men in the gar- 
rison to man the long lonely lines of defence. 

I have seen onh^ in Titian's pictures those magnificent pur- 
ple shadows in which the hills round about lay, as the dawn 
rose faintly behind them ; and we looked at Olivet for the last 
time from our terrace, where we were awaiting the arrival of 
the horses that were to carry us to Jaffa. A yellow moon 
was still blazing in the midst of countless brilliant stars over- 
head ; the nakedness and miser}' of the surrounding cit}^ were 
hidden in that beautiful ros}" atmosphere of mingling night and 
dawn. The city never looked so noble ; the mosques, domes, 
and minarets rising up into the calm starlit sk3^ 

By the gate of Bethlehem there stands one palm-tree, and 
a house with three domes. Put these and the huge old Gothic 
gate as a background dark against the yellowing eastern sky : 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 411 

the foreground is a deep gray : as 3'ou look into it dark forms 
of horsemen come out of the twilight : now there come lan- 
terns, more horsemen, a litter with mules, a crowd of Arab 
horsebo3's and dealers accompanying their beasts to the gate ; 
all the members of our party come up by twos and threes ; 
and, at last, the great gate opens just before sunrise, and we 
get into the gray plains. 

Oh ! the luxur}^ of an English saddle ! An English servant 
of one of the gentlemen of the mission procured it for me, on 
the back of a little mare, which (as I am a light weight) did 
not turn a hair in the course of the day's march — and after 
we got quit of the ugly, stony, clattering, mountainous Abou 
Gosh district, into the fair undulating plain, which stretches to 
Ramleh, carried me into the town at a pleasant hand-gallop. 
A negro, of preternatural ugliness, in a 3'ellow gown, with a 
crimson handkerchief streaming over his head, digging his 
shovel spurs into the lean animal he rode, and driving three 
others before — swajing backwards and forwards on his horse, 
now embracing his ears, and now almost under his belh', 
screaming " yallah " with the most frightful shrieks, and sing- 
ing country songs — galloped along ahead of me. I acquired 
one of his poems prett}^ w^ell, and could imitate his shriek ac- 
curately ; but I shall not have the pleasure of singing it to you 
in England. I had forgotten the delightful dissonance two 
days after, both the negro's and that of a real Arab minstrel, 
a donkey-driver accompan3ing our baggage, who sang and 
grinned with the most amusing good-humor. 

We halted, in the middle of the da}-, in a little wood of 
olive-trees, which forms almost the only shelter between Jaffa 
and Jerusalem, except that afforded by the orchards in the 
odious village of Abou Gosh, through which we went at a 
double-quick pace. Under the olives, or up in the branches, 
some of our friends took a siesta. I have a sketch of four of 
them so employed. Two of them were dead within a month of 
the fatal S3'rian fever. But we did not know how near fate was 
to us then. Fires were lighted, and fowls and eggs divided, and 
tea and coffee served round in tin panikins, and here we lighted 
pipes, and smoked and laughed at our ease. I believe ever}^- 
bod}^ was happy to be out of Jerusalem. The impression I 
have of it now is of ten days passed in a fever. 

We all found quarters in the Greek convent at Ramleh, 
where the monks served us a supper on a terrace, in a pleasant 
sunset ; a beautiful and cheerful landscape stretching around ; 
the land in graceful undulations, the towers and mosques rosy 



412 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

in the sunset, with no lack of verdure, especially of graceful 
palms. Jaffa was nine miles off. As we rode all the morning 
we had been accompanied by the smoke of our steamer, twenty 
miles off at sea. 

The convent is a huge caravanserai ; only three or four 
monks dwell in it, the ghostly hotel-keepers of the place. The 
horses were tied up and fed in the court-yard, into which we rode ; 
above were the living-rooms, where there is accommodation, 
not only for an unlimited number of pilgrims, but for a vast 
and innumerable host of hopping and crawling things, who 
usuall}^ persist in partaking of the traveller's bed. Let all 
thin-skinned travellers in the East be warned on no account to 
travel without the admirable invention described in Mr. Fel- 
lowes' book ; nay, possibly invented by that enterprising and 
learned traveller. You make a sack, of calico or linen, big 
enough for the body, appended to which is a closed chimney 
of muslin, stretched out by cane-hoops, and fastened up to a 
beam, or against the wall. You keep a sharp e3^e to see that 
no flea or bug is on the look-out, and when assured of this, 
you pop into the bag, tightly closing the orifice after you. 
This admirable bug-disappointer I tried at Ramleh, and had 
the onl}^ undisturbed night's rest I enjoyed in the east. To be 
sure it was a short night, for our part}^ were stirring at one 
o'clock, and those who got up insisted on talking and keeping 
awake those who inclined to sleep. But I shall never forget 
the terror inspired in my mind, being shut up in the bug-dis- 
appointer, when a facetious lay-brother of the convent fell 
upon me and began ticJding me. I never had the courage again 
to try the anti-flea contrivance, preferring the friskiness of 
those animals to the sports of such a greasy grinning wag as 
my friend at Ramleh. 

In the morning, and long before sunrise, our little caravan 
was in marching order again. We went out with lanterns and 
shouts of "yallah" through the narrow streets, and issued 
into the plain, where, though there was no moon, there were 
blazing stars shining steadily overhead. They become friends 
to a man who travels, especially under the clear Eastern sky ; 
whence they look down as if protecting you, solemn, yellow, 
and refulgent. The}^ seem nearer to you than in Europe ; 
larger and more awful. So we rode on till the dawn rose, and 
Jaffa came in \iew. The friendly ship was \ymg out in waiting 
for us ; the horses were given up to their owners : and in the 
midst of a crowd of naked beggars, and a perfect storm of 
curses and yells for backsheesh, our party got into their boats, 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 413 

and to the ship, where we were welcomed by the very best 
captain that ever sailed upon this maritime g^obe Ji^^^l^' 
Captain Samuel Lewis of the Peninsular and Oriental Com. 
pany's Service. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

FROM JAFFA TO ALEXANDRIA. 

[From the Provider's Log-Book.] 

BILL OF FARE, Octobek 12th. 

Mulligatawny Soup. FrS Beans 

Salt Fish and Egg Sauce. foiled Pota^o^S 

Roast Haunch of Mutton. Boiled Potatoes. 

Boiled Shoulder and Onion Sauce. Baked ditto. 

l^^^^^'wf; Damson Tart. 

Roast Fowls. Currant ditto. 

^^11^^ ^"^- Rice Puddings. 

Haricot Mutton. Currant Fritters. 

Curry and Rice. 

We were just at the port's mouth — and could see the tow- 
ers and buildings of Alexandria rising purple agamst the sun- 
set, when the report of a gun came booming over the calm 
golden water ; and we heard, with much mortification, that we 
had no chance of getting pratique that night. Already the 
ungrateful passengers had begun to tire of the ship, - though 
in our absence & Syria it had been carefully cleansed and 
purified ; though it was cleared of the swarming Jews who 
had infested the decks all the way from Constantinople ; and 
though we had been feasting and carousing in the manner de- 
scribed above. ^ . ^ ^T, U„^\.r.r. 

But very early next morning we bore into the harbor, 
busy with a great quantity of craft. We passed huge black 
hulks of mouldering men-of-war, from the sterns of which 
trailed the dirty red flag, with the star and crescent ; boats, 
manned with red-capped seamen, and captains and steersmen 
in beards and tarbooshes, passed continually among these old 
hulks, the rowers bending to their oars, so that at each stroKe 
they disappeared bodily in the boat. Besides these, there was 
a large fleet of country ships, and stars and stripes, and tri- 
colorl, and Union Jacks ; and many active steamers, ot the 



414 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

French and English companies, shooting in and. out of the 
harbor, or moored in the brin}' waters. The ship of our com- 
pany, the "Oriental," la}' there — a palace upon the brine, 
and some of the Pasha's steam- vessels likewise, looking very 
like Christian boats ; but it was queer to look at some unin- 
telligible Turkish flourish painted on the stern, and the long- 
tailed Arabian hieroglyphics gilt on the paddle-boxes. Our 
dear friend and comrade of Beyrout (if we ma}- be permitted 
to call her so), H.M.S. " Trump," was in the harbor ; and the 
captain of that gallant ship, coming to greet us, drove some of 
us on shore in his gig. 

I had been preparing m3^self overnight, by the help of a 
cigar and a moonlight contemplation on deck, for sensations 
on landing in Egypt. I was ready to yield myself up with 
solemnity to the mystic grandeur of the scene of initiation. 
Pompey's Pillar must stand like a mountain, in a yellow plain, 
surrounded by a grove of obelisks as tall as palm-trees. Placid 
sphinxes brooding o'er the Nile — mighty Memnonian counte- 
nances calm — had revealed Egypt to me in a sonnet of Tennes- 
son's, and I was ready to gaze on it with pyramidal wonder 
and hieroglyphic awe. 

The landing quay at Alexandria is like the dockyard quay at 
Portsmouth : with a few score of brown faces scattered among 
the population. There are slop-sellers, dealers in marine- 
stores, bottled-porter shops, seamen lolling about ; flies and 
cabs are pl.yi»g' for hire : and a yelling chorus of donkey-boys, 
shrieking, " Ride, sir ! — donkey, sir ! — I say, sir ! " in excel- 
lent English, dispel all romantic notions. The placid sphinxes 
brooding o'er the Nile disappeared with that shriek of the don- 
key-boys. You might be as well impressed with Wapping as 
with your first step on Egyptian soil. 

The riding of a donkey is, after all, not a dignified occupa- 
tion. A man resists the offer at first, somehow, as an indignit3^ 
How is that poor little, red-saddled, long-eared creature to carry 
you? Is there to be one for you and another for your legs? 
Natives and Europeans, of all sizes, pass by, it is true, mounted 
upon the same contrivance. I waited until I got into a A^er}'' pri- 
vate spot, where nobod}^ could see me, and then ascended — why 
not say descended, at once? — on the poor little animal. In- 
stead of being crushed at once, as perhaps the rider expected, 
it darted forward, quite briskly and cheerfully, at six or seven 
miles an hour ; requiring no spur or admonitive to haste, except 
the shrieking of the little Egyptian gamin, who ran along by 
asinus's side. 



t 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 415 

The character of the houses by which 3'ou pass is 'scarcely 
Eastern at all. The streets are busy with a motley popula- 
tion of Jews and Armenians, slave-driving-looking Europeans, 
large-breeched Greeks, and well-shaven buxom merchants, 
looking as trim and fat as those on the Bourse or on 'Change ; 
only, among the natives, the stranger can't fail to remark (as 
the Caliph did of the Calendars, in the "Arabian Nights") 
that so many of them have only one eye. It is the horrid oph- 
thalmia which has played such frightful ravages with them. 
You see children sitting in the doorwa}'s, their ej^es completely 
closed up with the green sickening sore, and the flies feeding 
on them. Five or six minutes of the donkey-ride brings 3'ou 
to the Frank quarter, and the handsome broad street (like 
a street of Marseilles) where the principal hotels and mer- 
chants' houses are to be found, and wiiere the consuls have 
their houses, and hoist their flags. The palace of the French 
Consul-General makes the grandest show in the street, and 
presents a great contrast to the humble abode of the English 
representative, who protects his fellow-countrymen from a 
second floor. 

But that Alexandrian two-pair-front of a Consulate was 
more welcome and cheering than a palace to most of us. For 
there lay certain letters, with post-marks of Home upon them ; 
and kindl}" tidings, the first heard for two months: — though 
we had seen so many men and cities since, that Cornhill seemed 
to be a 3'ear off, at least, with certain persons dwelhng (more or 
less) in that vicinit}'. I saw a }'oung Oxford man seize his 
despatches, and shnk off with several letters, written in a tight, 
neat hand, and sedulousl}' crossed ; which an}" man could see, 
without looking farther, were the handiwork of Mary Ann, to 
whom he^ is attached. The law3^er received a bundle from his 
chambers, in which his clerk eased his soul regarding the state 
of Snooks V. Rodgers, Smith ats Tomkins, &c. The states- 
man had a packet of thick envelopes, decorated with that pro- 
fusion of sealing-wax in which official recklessness lavishes the 
resources of the countr}" : and 3^our humble servant got just one 
little, modest letter containing another, written in pencil char- 
acters, varying in size between one and two inches ; but how 
much pleasanter to read than my lord's despatch, or the clerk's 
account of Smith ats Tomkins, — yes, even than the Mar3' 
Ann correspondence! .... Yes, my dear madam, 3'ou will 
understand me, when I sa}' that it was from little P0II3' at 
home, with some confidential news about a cat, and the last 
report of her new doll. 



416 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

It is worth while to have made the journe}^ for this pleasure : 
to have walked the deck on long nights, and have thought of 
home. You have no leisure to do so in the cit3\ You don't 
see the heavens shine above you so purely there, or the stars 
so clearly. How, after the perusal of the above documents, 
we enjo3^ed a file of the admirable Galignani ; and what O'Con- 
nell was doing ; and the twelve last new victories of the 
French in Algeria ; and, above all, six or seven numbers of 
Punch ! There might have been an avenue of Pompey's Pillars 
within reach, and a live sphinx sporting on the banks of the 
Mahmoodieh Canal, and we would not have stirred to see 
them, until Punch had had his interview and Galignani was 
dismissed. 

The curiosities of Alexandria are few, and easilj" seen. We 
went into the bazaars, which have a much more Eastern look 
than the European quarter, with its Anglo-Gallic-Italian inhab- 
itants, and Babel-like civilization. Here and there a large 
hotel, clumsy and whitewashed, with Oriental trellised win- 
dows, and a couple of slouching sentinels at the doors, in the 
ugliest composite uniform that ever was seen, was pointed out 
as the residence of some great officer of the Pasha's Court, or 
of one of the numerous children of the Egyptian Solomon. His 
Highness was in his own palace, and was consequently not visi- 
ble. He was in deep grief, and strict retirement. It was at 
this time that the European newspapers announced that he was 
about to resign his empire ; but the quidnuncs of Alexandria 
hinted that a love-affair, in which the old potentate had engaged 
with senile extravagance, and the effects of a potion of hachich, 
or some deleterious drug, with which he was in the habit of 
intoxicating himself, had brought on that languor and desperate 
weariness of life and governing, into which the venerable Prince 
was plunged. Before three da3^s were over, however, the fit 
had left him, and he determined to live and reign a little longer. 
A ver}^ few da}- s afterwards several of our party were presented ^ 
to him at Cairo, and found the great Egyptian ruler perfectly 
convalescent. 

This and the Opera, and the quarrels of the two prime donne^ 
and the beauty of one of them, formed the chief subjects of 
conversation ; and I had this important news in the shop of a 
certain barber in the town, who conveyed it in a language com- 
posed of French, Spanish, and Italian, and with a volubihty 
quite worthy of a barber of Gil Bias. 

Then we went to see the famous obelisk presented by Me- 
hemet Ali to the British Government, who have not shown a 



' 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 417 

particular alacrit}^ to accept this ponderous present. The huge 
shaft lies on the ground prostrate, and desecrated by all sorts 
of abominations. Children were sprawling about, attracted b}^ 
the dirt there. Arabs, negroes, and donkey-boys were passing, 
quite indifferent, by the fallen monster of a stone, — as indif- 
ferent as the British Government, who don't care for recording 
the glorious termination of their Egyptian campaign of 1801. 
If our country takes the compliment so coolly, surely it would 
be disloyal upon our parts to be more enthusiastic. I wish 
they would offer the Trafalgar Square Pillar to the Egyptians ; 
and that both of the huge, ugly monsters were Ijdng in the dirt 
there, side by side. 

Pompey's Pillar is by no means so big as the Charing Cross 
trophy. This venerable column has not escaped ill-treatment 
either. Nuinberless ships' companies, travelling Cockneys, 
&c., have affixed their rude marks upon it. Some daring ruf- 
fian even painted the name of ' ' Warren's blacking " upon it, 
effacing other inscriptions, — one, Wilkinson says, "of the 
second Psammetichus." I regret deeply, my dear friend, that 
I cannot give you this document respecting a lamented monarch, 
in whose history I know you take such an interest. 

The best sight I saw in Alexandria was a negro holiday ; 
which was celebrated outside of the town by a sort of negro 
village of huts, swarming with old, lean, fat, ugly, infantine, 
happy faces, that nature has smeared with a preparation even 
more black and durable than that with which Psammetichus's 
base has been polished. Every one of these jolly faces was 
on the broad grin, from the dusky mother to the India-rubber 
child sprawhng upon her back, and the venerable jetty senior 
whose wool was as white as that of a sheep in Florian's pas- 
torals. 

To these dancers a couple of fellows were playing on a drum 
and a little banjo. They were singing a chorus, which was not 
only singular, and perfectly marked in the rhythm, but exceed- 
ing sweet in the tune. They danced in a circle ; and perform- 
ers came trooping from all quarters, who fell into the round, 
and began waggling their heads, and waving their left hands, 
and tossing up and down the little thin rods which they each 
carried, and all singing to the very best of their power. 

I saw the chief eunuch of the Grand Turk at Constantinople 
pass by — but with what a different expression ! Though he is 
one of the greatest of the great in the Turkish Empire (ranking 
with a Cabinet Minister or Lord Chamberlain here), his fin« 
countenance was clouded with care, and savage with ennui. 

27 



418 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

Here his black brethren were ragged, starving, and happy; 
and I need not tell such a fine moralist as you are, how it is the 
case, in the white as well as the black world, that happiness 
(republican leveller, who does not care a fig for the fashion) 
often disdains the turrets of kings, to pay a visit to the " taber- 
nas pauperum." 

We went the round of the coff'ee-houses in the evening, both 
the polite European places of resort, where you get ices and the 
French papers, and those in the town, where Greeks, Turks, 
and general company resort, to sit upon uncomfortable chairs, 
and drink wretched muddy coffee, and to listen to two or three 
miserable musicians, who keep up a variation of howling for 
hours together. But the pretty song of the niggers had spoiled 
me for that abominable music. 



CHAPTER XV. 

TO CAIRO. 

We had no need of hiring the country boats which ply on 
the Mahmoodieh Canal to Atfeh, where it joins the Nile, but 
were accommodated in one of the Peninsular and Oriental 
Company's fly-boats ; pretty similar to those narrow Irish canal- 
boats in which the enterprising traveller has been carried from 
Dublin to Ballinasloe. The present boat was, to be sure, tugged 
by a little steamer, so that the Egyptian canal is ahead of the 
Irish in so far : in natural scenery, the one prospect is fully 
equal to the other ; it must be confessed that there is nothing 
to see. In truth, there was nothing but this : you saw a mudd}' 
bank on each side of you, and a blue sky overhead. A few 
round mud-huts and palm-trees were planted along the line 
here and there. Sometimes we would see, on the water-side, a 
woman in a blue robe, with her son b}' her, in that tight brown 
costume with which Nature had supphed him. Now, it was a 
hat dropped by one of the party into the water ; a brown Arab 
plunged and disappeared incontinently after the hat, re-issued 
from the muddy water, prize in hand, and ran naked after the 
little steamer (which was by this time far ahead of him) , his 
brawny limbs shining in the sun : then we had half-cold fowls 
and bitter ale : then we had dinner — bitter ale and cold fowls ; 




EGYPTIAN VILLA. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 419 

with which incidents the day on the canal passed awaj^, as 
harmlessl}' as if we had been in a Dutch trackschu3't. 

Towards evening we arrived at the town of Atfeh — half 
land, half houses, half palm-trees, with swarms of half-naked 
people crowding the rustic shady bazaars, and bartering their 
produce of fruit or many-colored grain. Here the canal came 
to a check, ending abruptl}^ with a large lock. A little fleet of 
masts and country ships were beyond the lock, and it led into 
The Nile. 

After all, it is something to have seen these red waters. It is 
only low green banks, mud-huts, and palm-clumps, with the sun 
setting red behind them, and the great, dull, sinuous river 
flashing here and there in the light. But it is the Nile, the old 
Saturn of a stream — a divinity yet, though younger river-gods . 
have deposed him. Hail! O venerable father of crocodiles! 
We were all lost in sentiments of the profoundest awe and 
respect ; which we proved by tumbling down into the cabin of 
the Nile steamer that was waiting to receive us, and fighting 
and cheating for sleeping berths. 

At dawn in the morning we were on deck ; the character had 
not altered of the scenery about the river. Vast flat stretches 
of land were on either side, recovering from the subsiding in- 
undations : near the mud villages, a country ship or two was 
roosting under the date-trees ; the landscape ever3^where stretch- 
ing awa}' level and lonely. In the sk}^ in the east was a long- 
streak of greenish light, which widened and rose until it grew 
to be of an opal color, then orange ; then, behold, the round 
red disc of the sun rose flaming up above the horizon. All the 
water blushed as he got up ; the deck was all red ; the steersman 
gave his helm to another, and prostrated himself on the deck, 
and bowed his head eastward, and praised the Maker of the 
sun : it shone on his white turban as he was kneeling, and gilt 
up his bronzed face, and sent his blue shadow over the glowing 
deck. The distances, which had been graj', were now clothed 
in purple ; and the broad stream was illuminated. As the sun 
rose higher, the morning blush faded awa}' ; the sk}' was cloud- 
less and pale, and the river and the surrounding landscape 
were dazzlingly clear. 

Looking ahead in an hour or two, we saw the PjTamids. 

Fancy my sensations, dear M ; — two big ones and a little 

one: 

! ! ! 

There they lay. rosv and solemn in the distance -^ those old, 



420 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

majestical, mystical, familiar edifices. Several of us tried to 
be impressed ; but breakfast supervening, a rush was made at 
the coffee and cold pies, and the sentiment of awe was lost in 
the scramble for victuals. 

Are we so biases of the world that the greatest marvels in it 
do not succeed in moving us? Have society. Pall Mall clubs, 
and a habit of sneering, so withered up our organs of veneration 
that we can admire no more ? My sensation with regard to the 
Pyramids was, that I had seen them before : then came a feeling 
of shame that the view of them should awaken no respect. 
Then I wanted (naturally) to see whether m}^ neighbors were 
any more enthusiastic than myself — Trinity College, Oxford, 
was busy with the cold ham : Downing Street was particularly 
attentive to a bunch of grapes : Fig-tree Court behaved with 
decent propriety ; he is in good practice, and of a Conservative 
turn of mind, which leads him to respect from principle les faits 
accomplis ; perhaps he remembered that one of them was as big 
as Lincoln's Inn Fields. But, the truth is, nobody was seriously 
moved And why should the}^ because of an exaggera- 
tion of bricks ever so enormous ? I confess, for my part, that 
the P3Tamids are very big. 

After a vo3"age of about thirty hours, the steamer brought 
up at the quay of Boulak, amidst a small fleet of dirty comfort- 
less Caugias, in which cottons and merchandise were loading 
and unloading, and a huge noise and bustle on the shore. 
Numerous villas, parks, and country-houses, had begun to 
decorate the Cairo bank of the stream ere this : residences of 
the Pasha's nobles, who have had orders to take their pleasure 
here and beautify the precincts of the capital ; tall factory 
chimneys also rise here ; there are foundries and steam-engine 
manufactories. These, and the pleasure-houses, stand as trim 
as soldiers on parade ; contrasting with the swarming, slovenly, 
close, tumble-down, eastern old town, that forms the outport of 
Cairo, and was built before the importation of European taste 
and discipline. 

Here we alighted upon donkeys, to the full as brisk as those 
of Alexandria, invaluable to timid riders, and equal to any 
weight. We had a Jerusalem pony race into Cairo ; my animal 
beating all the rest b}^ many lengths. The entrance to the 
capital, from Boulak, is very pleasant and picturesque — over 
a fair road, and the wide-planted plain of the Ezbekieh ; where 
are gardens, canals, fields, and avenues of trees, and where the 
great ones of the town come and take their pleasure. We saw 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 421 

manj^ barouches driving about with fat Pashas lolling on the 
cushions ; statel3^-looking colonels and doctors taking their 
ride, followed by their orderlies or footmen ; lines of people 
taking pipes and sherbet in the coffee-houses ; and one of the 
pleasantest sights of all, — a fine new white building with 
Hotel d'Orient written up in huge French characters, and 
which, indeed, is an establishment as large and comfortable as 
most of the best inns of the South of France. As a hundred 
Christian people, or more, come from England and from India 
ever}^ fortnight, this inn has been built to accommodate a large 
proportion of them ; and twice a month, at least, its sixty rooms 
are full. 

The gardens from the windows give a very pleasant and 
animated view : the hotel-gate is besieged by crews of donkey- 
drivers ; the noble stately Arab women, with tawny skins (of 
which a simple robe of floating blue cotton enables you liberally 
to see the color) and large black e3'es, come to the well hard by 
for water : camels are perpetually arriving and setting down 
their loads : the court is full of bustling dragomans, ayahs, 
and children from India ; and poor old venerable he-nurses, 
with gra}' beards and crimson turbans, tending little white- 
faced babies that have seen the light at Dumdum or Futtj'ghur : 
a copper-colored barber, seated on his hams, is shaving a camel- 
driver at the great inn-gate. The bells are ringing prodigiously ; 
and Lieutenant Waghorn is bouncing in and out of the court- 
3^ard full of business. He onlv left Bomba}^ yesterda}^ morning, 
was seen in the Red Sea on Tuesdav, is engaged to dinner this 
afternoon in the Regent's Park, and (as it is about two minutes 
since I saw him in the court-3^ard) I make no doubt he is by 
this time at Alexandria or at Malta, sa3^, perhaps at both. 11 
en est capable. If an3^ man can be at two places at once (which 
I don't believe or den3^) Waghorn is he. 

Six-o'clock bell rings. Sixty people sit down to a quasi 
French banquet : thirty Indian officers in moustaches and jack- 
ets ; ten civilians in ditto and spectacles ; ten pale-faced ladies 
with ringlets, to whom all pay prodigious attention. All the 
pale ladies drink pale ale, which, perhaps, accounts for it; 
in fact the Bomba3^ and Suez passengers have just arrived, 
and hence this crowding and bustling, and display of militar3^ 
jackets and moustaches, and ringlets and beauty. The win- 
dows are open, and a rush of mosquitoes from the Ezbekieh 
waters, attracted by the wax-candles, adds greatl3'' to the excite- 
ment of the scene. There was a little tough old Major, who 
persisted in flinging open the windows, to admit these volatile 



422 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

creatures, with a noble disregard to their sting — and the pale 
ringlets did not seem to heed them either, though the delicate 
shoulders of some of them were bare. 

All the meat, ragouts, fricandeaux, and roasts, which are 
served round at dinner, seem to me to be of the same meat : 
a black uncertain sort of viand do these ' ' flesh-pots of Egypt " 
contain. But what the meat is no one knew ; is it the donkey? 
The animal is more plentiful than an}^ other in Cairo. 

After dinner, the ladies retiring, some of us take a mix- 
ture of hot water, sugar, and pale French brand}^, which is 
said to be deleterious, but is by no means unpalatable. One 
of the Indians offers a bundle of Bengal cheroots ; and we 
make acquaintance with those honest bearded white-jacketed 
Majors and military Commanders, finding England here in a 
Prench hotel kept % an Italian, at the cit}^ of Grand Cairo, in 
Africa. 

On retiring to bed you take a towel with you into the sacred 
interior, behind the mosquito curtains. Then 3^our dut}^ is, 
having tucked the curtains closely around, to flap and bang 
violentl}' with this towel, right and left, and backwards and 
forwards, until every mosquito shall have been massacred that 
ma}' have taken refuge within j'our muslin canopy. 

Do what 3'ou will, however, one of them alwa3'^s escapes the 
murder ; and as soon as the candle is out the miscreant begins 
his infernal droning and trumpeting ; descends playfully upon 
ybur nose and face, and so lightly that you don't know that he 
touches you. But that for a week afterwards you bear about 
marks of his ferocity, you might take the invisible little being 
to be a creature of fanc}' — a mere singing in 3'our ears. 

This, as an account of Cairo, dear M , 3'ou will probably 

be disposed to consider as incomplete : the fact is, I have seen 
nothing else as 3'et. I have peered into no harems. The 
magicians, proved to be humbugs, have been bastinadoed out 
of town. The dancing-girls, those loveh' Alme, of whom I 
had hoped to be able to give a glowing and elegant, though 
stricth^ moral, description, have been whipped into Upper 
Egypt, and as 3'ou are saying in your mind .... Well, it 
isn't a good description of Cairo ; 3'ou are perfectl3" right. It 
is England in Egypt. I like to see her there with her pluck, 
enterprise, manliness, bitter ale, and Harve3' sauce. Wherever 
they come the3^ sta}^ and prosper. From the summit of yonder 
P3a'amids forty centuries ma3' look down on them if the}" are 
minded ; and I sa3', those venerable daughters of time ought 
to be better pleased b3' the examination, than by regarding the 




INTERIOR OF A MOSQUE. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 423 

French bayonets and General Bonaparte, Member of the In- 
stitute, fift}' years ago, running about with sabre and pigtail. 
Wonders he did, to be sure, and then ran awa}-, leaving Kleber, 
to be murdered, in the lurch — a few hundred 3ards from the 
spot where these disquisitions are written. But what are his 
wonders compared to Waghorn ? Nap massacred the Mame- 
lukes ' at the P3Tamids : Wag has conquered the Pyramids 
themselves ; dragged the unwieldy structures a month nearer 
England than the}' were, and brought the country' along with 
them. All the trophies and captives that ever were brought to 
Roman triumph were not so enormous and wonderful as this. 
All the heads that Napoleon ever caused to be struck off (as 
George Cruikshank says) would not elevate him a monument 
as big. Be ours the trophies of peace ! O my country ! O 
Waghorn ! Hcr tibi erunt artes. When I go to the P3'ramids 
I will sacrifice in your name, and pour out Hbations of bitter ale 
and Harve}^ sauce in your honor. 

One of the noblest views in the world is to be seen from the 
citadel, which we ascended to-day. You see the cit}- stretching 
beneath it, with a thousand minarets and mosques, — the great 
river curling through the green plains, studded with innumera- 
ble villages. The Pyramids are bej'ond, brilliantly distinct ; 
and the lines and fortifications of the height, and the arsenal 
lying below. Gazing down, the guide does not fail to point 
out the famous Mameluke leap, hy which one of the corps 
escaped death, at the time that his Highness the Pasha arranged 
the general massacre of the bod}^ 

The venerable Patriarch's harem is close b}^, where he 
received, with much distinction, some of the members of our 
party. We were allowed to pass ver}' close to the sacred pre- 
cincts, and saw a comfortable white European building, ap- 
proached by flights of steps, and flanked by pretty gardens. 
Police and law-courts were here also, as I understood ; but it 
was not the time of the Eg3'ptian assizes. It would have been 
pleasant, otherwise, to see the chief cadi in his hall of justice ; 
and painful, though instructive, to behold the immediate appli- 
cation of the bastinado. 

The great lion of the place is a new mosque which Mehemet 
Ali is constructing ver}' leisurely. It is built of alabaster of a 
fair white, with a delicate blushing tinge ; but the ornaments 
are European — the noble, fantastic, beautiful Oriental art is 
forgotten. The old mosques of the cit3% of which I entered 
two, and looked at many, are a thousand times more beautiful. 
Their variety of ornament is astonishing, — the diflference in 



424 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

the shapes of the domes, the beautiful fancies and caprices in the 
forms of the minarets, which violate the rules of proportion with 
the most happ}', daring grace, must have struck every architect 
who has seen them. As you go through the streets, these 
architectural beauties keep the eye continually^ charmed : now 
it is a marble fountain, with its arabesque and carved over- 
hanging roof, which j^ou can look at with as much pleasure as 
an antique gem, so neat and brilliant is the execution of it ; 
then, you come to the arched entrance to a mosque, which 
shoots up like — like what ? — like the most beautiful pirouette 
by Taglioni, let us sa}^ This architecture is not sublimely 
beautiful, perfect loveliness and calm, like that which was 
revealed to us at the Parthenon (and in comparison of which 
the Pantheon and Colosseum are vulgar and coarse, mere 
broad-shouldered Titans before ambrosial Jove) ; but these 
fantastic spires, and cupolas, and galleries, excite, amuse, tickle 
the imagination, so to speak, and perpetually fascinate the e3'e. 
There were ver}^ few believers in the famous mosque of Sultan 
Hassan when we visited it, except the Moslemitish beadle, who 
was on the look-out for backsheesh, just like his brother officer 
in an English cathedral ; and who, making us put on straw 
slippers, so as not to pollute the sacred pavement of the place, 
conducted us through it. 

It is stupendously light and airy ; the best specimens of 
Norman art that I have seen (and sureh- the Crusaders must 
have carried home the models of these heathenish temples in 
their eyes) do not exceed its noble grace and simplicity. The 
mystics make discoveries at home, that the Gothic architecture 
is Catholicism carved in stone — (in which case, and if archi- 
tectural beauty is a criterion or expression of religion, what a 
dismal barbarous creed must that expressed by the Bethesda 
meeting-house and Independent chapels be?) — if, as they 
would gravel}^ hint, because Gothic architecture is beautiful, 
Catholicism is therefore lovely and right, — why, Mahometan- 
ism must have been right and lovely too once. Never did a 
creed possess temples more elegant ; as elegant as the Cathedral 
at Rouen, or the Baptister}^ at Pisa. 

But it is changed now. There was nobod}^ at prayers ; only 
the official beadles, and the supernumerary guides, who came 
for backsheesh. Faith hath degenerated. Accordinglj^ they 
can't build these mosques, or invent these perfect forms, any 
more. Witness the tawdr}^ incompleteness and vulgarity of the 
Pasha's new temple, and the woful failures among the very late 
edifices in Constantinople ! 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 425 

However, they still make pilgrimages to Mecca in great 
force. The Mosque of Hassan is hard b}^ the green plain on 
which the Hag encamps before it sets forth annually on its 
pious peregrination. It was not yet its time, but I saw in the 
bazaars that redoubted Dervish, who is the Master of the Hag 

— the leader of every procession, accompanying the sacred 
camel ; and a personage almost as much respected as Mr. 
O'Connell in Ireland. 

This fellow lives b}^ alms (I mean the head of the Hag). 
Winter and summer he wears no clothes but a thin and scanty 
white shirt. He wields a staff, and stalks along scowling and 
barefoot. His immense shock of black hair streams behind 
him, and his brown, brawny body is curled over with black 
hair, like a savage man. This saint has the largest harem in 
the town ; he is said to be enormously rich by the contribu- 
tions he has levied ; and is so adored for his holiness by the 
infatuated folk, that when he returns from the Hag (which he 
does on horseback, the chief Mollahs going out to meet him 
and escort him home in state along the Ezbekieh road,) the 
people fling themselves down under the horse's feet, eager to 
be trampled upon and killed, and confident of heaven if the 
great Hadji's horse will but kick them into it. Was it my 
fault if I thought of Hadji Daniel, and the believers in him? 

There was no Dervish of repute on the plain when I passed ; 
onty one poor, wild fellow, who was dancing, with glaring e3"es 
and grizzled beard, rather to the contempt of the bystanders, 
as I thought, who by no means put coppers into his extended 
bowl. On this poor devil's head there was a poorer devil still 

— a live cock, entirely plucked, but ornamented with some bits 
of ragged tape and scarlet and tinsel, the most horribly gro- 
tesque and miserable object T ever saw. 

A little way from him, there was a sort of pla}^ going on — 
a clown and a knowing one, like Widdicombe and the clown 
with us, — the buffoon answering with blundering responses, 
which made all the audience shout with laughter ; but the onl}* 
joke which was translated to me would make j^ou do anything 
but laugh, and shall therefore never be revealed by these lips. 
All their humor, my dragoman tells me, is of this questionable 
sort ; and a young Egj'-ptian gentleman, son of a Pasha, whom 
I subsequently met at Malta, confirmed the statement, and 
gave a detail of the practices of private life which was any- 
thing but edifying. The great aim of woman, he said, in the 
much-maligned Orient, is to administer to the brutality of her 
lord ; her merit is in knowing how to vary the beast's pleasures. 



426 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

He could give us no idea, he said, of the wit of the Egyptian 
•women, and their skill in double entendre ; nor, I presume, did 
we lose much by our ignorance. What I would urge, humbly, 
however, is this — Do not let us be led away by German 
writers and aesthetics, Semilassoisms, Hahnhahnisms, and the 
like. The life of the East is a life of brutes. The much- 
maligned Orient, I am confident, has not been maligned neai* 
enough ; for the good reason that none of us can tell the 
amount of horrible sensuality practised there. 

Beyond the jack-pudding rascal and his audience, there was 
on the green a spot, on which was pointed out to me a mark, 
as of blood. That morning the blood had spouted from the 
neck of an Arnaoot soldier, who had been executed for murder. 
These Arnaoots are the curse and terror of the citizens. Their 
camps are without the city ; but they are always brawling, 
or drunken, or murdering within, in spite of the rigid law 
which is appUed to them, and which brings one or more of the 
scoundrels to death almost every week. 

Some of our party had seen this fehow borne by the hotel 
the da}' before, in the midst of a crowd of soldiers who had 
apprehended him. The man was still formidable to his score 
of captors ; his clothes had been torn oft' ; his limbs were bound 
with cords ; but he was struggling frantically to get free ; and 
m}' informant described the figure and appearance of the naked, 
bound, writhing savage, as quite a model of beaut3^ 

Walking in the street, this fellow had just before been struck 
by the looks of a woman who was passing, and laid hands on 
her. She ran away, and he pursued her. She ran into the 
police-barrack, which was luckily hard hy ; but the Arnaoot 
was nothing daunted, and followed into the midst of the police. 
One of them tried to stop him. The Arnaoot pulled out a 
pistol, and shot the policeman dead. He cut down three or 
four more before he was secured. He knew his inevitable end 
must be death : that he could not seize upon the woman : that 
he could not hope to resist half a regiment of armed soldiers : 
yet his instinct of lust and murder was too strong ; and so he 
had his head taken off quite calmly this morning, many of his 
comrades attending their brother's last moments. He cared 
not the least about dying ; and knelt down and had his head 
off as coolly as if he were looking on at the same ceremony 
performed on another. 

When the head was off, and the blood was spouting on the 
ground, a married woman, who had no children, came forward 
very eagerly out of the crowd, to smear herself with it, — the 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 427 

application of criminals' blood being considered a very favor- 
able medicine for women afflicted with barrenness, — so she 
indulged in this remedy. 

But one of the Arnaoots standing near said, " What, you 
like blood, do you?" (or words to that eflfect). "Let's see 
how yours mixes with my comrade's." And tliereupon, taking 
out a pistol, he shot the woman in the midst of the crowd and 
the guards who were attending the execution ; was seized of 
course b}^ the latter; and no doubt to-morrow morning will 
have his head off too. It would be a good chapter to write — 
the Death of the Arnaoot — but I shan't go. Seeing one man 
hanged is quite enough in the course of a life. J'y at ete^ as 
the Frenchman said of hunting. 

These Arnaoots are the terror of the town. They seized 
hold of an Englishman the other da}', and were very nearly 
pistolling him. Last week one of them murdered a shop- 
keeper at Boulak, who refused to sell him a watermelon at a 
price which he, the soldier, fixed upon it. So, for the matter 
of three-halfpence, he killed the shopkeeper ; and had his own 
rascall}' head chopped off, universally regretted b}' his friends. 
Wh}', I wonder, does not his Highness the Pasha invite the 
Arnaoots to a dejeune at the Citadel, as he did the Mamelukes, 
and serve them up the same sort of breakfast? The walls 
are considerably heightened since Emin Bey and his horse 
leapt them, and it is probable that not one of them would 
escape. 

This sort of pistol practice is common enough here, it would 
appear ; and not among the Arnaoots merel}', but the higher 
orders. Thus, a short time since, one of his Highness's grand- 
sons, whom I shall call Bluebeard Pasha (lest a revelation of 
the name of the said Pasha might interrupt our good relations 
with his countr}') — one of the young Pashas being backward 
rather in his education, and anxious to learn mathematics, and 
the elegant deportment of civilized life, sent to England for a 
tutor. I have heard he was a Cambridge man, and had learned 
both algebra and politeness under the Reverend Doctor Whizzle, 
of College. 

One day when Mr. MacWhirter, B.A., was walking in 
Shoubra gardens, with his Highness the 3'oung Bluebeard 
Pasha, inducting him into the usages of polished societ}', and 
favoring him with reminiscences of Trumpington, there came 
up a poor fellah, who flung himself at the feet of 3'Oung Blue- 
beard, and calling for justice in a loud and pathetic voice, and 
holding out a petition, besoucht his Highness to cast a gracioui 



428 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

eye upon the same, and see that his slave had justice done 
him. 

Bhiebeard Pasha was so deeply engaged and interested b^ 
his respected tutor's conversation, that he told the poor fellah 
to go to the deuce, and resumed the discourse which his ill- 
timed outcr}^ for justice had interrupted. But the unlucky 
wight of a fellah was pushed by his evil destiny, and thought 
he would make yet another apphcation. So he took a short 
cut down one of the garden lanes, and as the Prince and the 
Reverend Mr. MacWhirter, his tutor, came along once more 
engaged in pleasant disquisition, behold the fellah was once 
more in their way, kneeling at the august Bluebeard's feet, 
yelling out for justice as before, and thrusting his petition into 
the royal face. 

When the Prince's conversation was thus interrupted a 
second time, his royal patience and clemenc}^ were at an end. 
" Man," said he, " once before I bade thee not to pester me 
with thy clamor, and lo ! you have disobeyed me, — take the 
consequences of disobedience to a Prince, and thy blood be 
upon thine own head." So saying, he drew out a pistol and 
blew out the brains of that fellah, so that he never bawled out 
for justice any more. 

The Reverend Mr. MacWhirter was astonished at this sud- 
den mode of proceeding : " Gracious Prince," said he, " we do 
not shoot an undergraduate at Cambridge even for walking over 
a college grass-plot. — Let me suggest to your Royal Highness 
that this method of ridding yourself of a poor devil's importuni- 
ties is such as we should consider abrupt and almost cruel in 
Europe. Let me beg you to moderate your ro3^al impetuosit}^ 
for the f*fcure ; and, as your Highness's tutor, entreat you to be 
a little less prodigal of your powder and shot." 

" O Mollah ! " said his Highness, here interrupting his gov- 
ernor's affectionate appeal, — " j^ou are good to talk about 
Trumpington and the Pons Asinorum, but if you interfere with 
the course of justice in an}^ way, or prevent me from shooting 
any dog of an Arab who snarls at mv heels, I have another pis- 
tol ; and, by the beard of the Prophet ! a bullet for you too." 
So saying he pulled out the weapon, with such a terrific and 
significant glance at the Reverend Mr. MacWhirter, that that 
gentleman wished himself back in his Combination Room again ; 
and is b}^ this time, let us hope, safely housed there. 

Another facetious anecdote, the last of those I had from 
a well-informed gentleman residing at Cairo, whose name (as 
many copies of this book that is to be will be in the circulating 



FROM CORNHTLL TO CAIRO. 429 

libraries there) I cannot, for obvious reasons, mention. The 
revenues of the countr}' come into the august treasury through 
the means of farmers, to whom the districts are let out, and who 
are personally answerable for their quota of the taxation. This 
practice involves an intolerable deal of t^a^anny and extortion 
on the part of those engaged to lev}^ the taxes, and creates a 
corresponding duplicity among the fellahs, who are not only 
wretchedly poor among themselves, but whose object is to appear 
still more poor, and guard their mone}" from their rapacious 
overseers. Thus the Orient is much maligned ; but everybody 
cheats there : that is a melancholy fact. The Pasha robs and 
cheats the merchants; knows that the overseer robs him, and 
bides his time, until he makes him disgorge by the application 
of the tremendous bastinado ; the overseer robs and squeezes 
the laborer ; and the poverty-stricken devil cheats and robs 
in return ; and so the government moves in a happy cycle of 
roguery. 

Deputations from the fellahs and peasants come perpetually 
before the august presence, to complain of the cruelty" and exac- 
tions of the chiefs set over them : but, as it is known that the 
Arab never will pay without the bastinado, their complaints, 
for the most part, meet with but little attention. His High- 
ness's treasury must be filled, and his officers supported in their 
authority. 

However, there was one village, of which the complaints were 
so pathetic, and the inhabitants so supremely wretched, that the 
royal indignation was moved at their stor3% and the chief of the 
village. Skinflint Beg, was called to give an account of himself 
at Cairo. 

When he came before the presence, Mehemet Ali reproached 
him with his horrible cruelty and exactions ; asked him how he 
dared to treat his faithful and beloved subjects in this way, and 
threatened him with disgrace, and the utter confiscation of his 
propert3^ for thus having reduced a district to ruin. 

" Your Highness says I have reduced these fellahs to ruin," 
said Skinflint Beg; "what is the best way to confound my 
enemies, and to show you the falsehood of their accusations 
that I have ruined them ? — - To bring more money from them. 
If I bring you five hundred purses from my village, will you 
acknowledge that my people are not ruined yet ? " 

The heart of the Pasha was touched : "I will have no more 
bastinadoing, Skinflint Beg ; you have tortured these poor 
people so much, and have got so little from them, that my royal 



430 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

heart relents for the present, and I will have them suffer no 
farther." 

"Give me free leave — give me your Highness's gracious 
pardon, and I will bring the five hundred purses as sureh'- as my 
name is Skinflint Beg. I demand only the time to go home, 
the time to return, and a few days to stay, and I will come 
back as honestly as Regulus Pasha did to the Carthaginians, — 
I will come back and make my face white before your High- 
ness." 

Skinflint Beg's prayer for a reprieve was granted, and he 
returned to his village, where he forthwith called the elders 
together. " O friends," he said, "complaints of our poverty 
and misery have reached the royal throne^ and the benevolent 
heart of the sovereign has been melted by the words that have 
been poured into his ears. ' My heart yearns towards my peo- 
ple of El Muddee,' he says ; ' I have thought how to relieve 
their miseries. Near them lies the fruitful land of El Guanee. 
It is rich in maize and cotton, in sesame and barley ; it is worth 
a thousand purses ; but I will let it to my children for seven 
hundred, and I will give over the rest of the profit to them, as 
an alleviation for their affliction.' " 

The elders of El Muddee knew the great value and fertility 
of the lands of Guanee, but the}^ doubted the sincerity of their 
governor, who, however, dispelled their fears, and adroitly 
quickened their eagerness to close with the proffered bargain. 
" I will myself advance two hundred and fifty purses," he said, 
"do 5^ou take counsel among yourselves, and subscribe the 
other five hundred ; and when the sura is ready, a deputation 
of you shall carr}' it to Cairo, and I will come with m}^ share ; 
and we will lay the whole at the feet of his Highness." So the 
gray-bearded ones of the village advised with one another ; 
and those who had been inaccessible to bastinadoes, somehow 
found money at the calling of interest ; and the Sheikh, and 
they, and the five hundred purses, set ofi" on the road to the 
capital. 

When they arrived. Skinflint Beg and the elders of El Mud- 
dee sought admission to the royal throne, and there laid down 
their purses. "Here is j^our humble servant's contribution," 
said Skinflint, producing his share; " and here is the offering 
of your lo3'al village of El Muddee. Did I not before say that 
enemies and deceivers had maligned me befo^.-e the august pres- 
ence, pretending that not a piastre was left in m}^ village, and 
that my extortion had entirely denuded the peasantry? See ! 
here is proof that there is plentv of money still in El 'Muddee : 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 431 

in twelve hours the elders have subscribed five hundred purses, 
and \B.y them at the feet of their lord." 

Instead of the bastinado, Skinflint Beg was instantly rewarded 
with the royal favor, and the former mark of attention was be- 
stowed upon the fellahs who had mahgned him ; Skinflint Beg 
was promoted to the rank of Skinflint Bey ; and his manner of 
extracting money from his people may be studied with admira- 
tion in a part of the United Kingdom.* 

At the time of the S3Tian quarrel, and when, apprehending 
some general rupture with England, the Pasha wished to raise 
the spirit of the fellahs, and relever la morale nationale^ he 
actually made one of the astonished Arabs a colonel. He de- 
graded him three days after peace was concluded. The young 
Egyptian colonel, who told me this, laughed and enjoj'ed the 
joke with the utmost gusto. " Is it not a shame," he said, " to 
make me a colonel at three-and- twenty ; I, who have no par- 
ticular merit, and hav^ never seen an}^ service ? " Death has 
since stopped the modest and good-natured young fellow's 

further promotion. The death of Bey was announced in 

the French papers a few weeks back. 

My above kind-hearted and agreeable young informant used 
to discourse, in our evenings in the Lazaretto at Malta, \evy 
eloquently about the beauty of his wife, whom he had left 
behind him at Cairo — her brown hair, her brilliant complexion, 
and her blue e3-es. It is this Circassian blood, I suppose, to 
which the Turkish aristocracy that governs Eg3'pt must be in- 
debted for the fairness of their skin. Ibrahim Pasha, riding by 
in his barouche, looked like a blufl*, J0II3'- faced English dragoon 
officer, with a gra3' moustache and red cheeks, such as 3'ou 
might see on a field-day at Maidstone. All the numerous 
officials riding through the town were quite as fair as Europe- 
ans. We made acquaintance with one dignitary, a very jovial 
and fat Pasha, the proprietor of the inn, I believe, who was 
continiiall3^ lounging about the Ezbekieh garden, and who, but 
for a slight Jewish cast of countenance, might have passed any 
day for a Frenchman. The ladies whom we saw were equally 
fair ; that is, the ver3^ slight particles of the persons of ladies 
which our luck3' eyes were permitted to gaze on. These lovely 
creatures go through the town by parties of three or four, 
mounted on donkeys, and attended by slaves holding on at the 
crupper, to receive the lovely riders lest the3' should fall, and 
shouting out shrill cries of " Schmaalek," " Ameenek " (or how- 

* At Derrynane Beg, for instance. 



432 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

ever else these words may be pronounced), and flogging off the 
people right and left with the bnffalo-thong. But the dear 
creatures are even more closely disguised than at Constanti- 
nople : their bodies are enveloped with a large black silk hood, 
like a cab-head ; the fashion seemed to be to spread their arms 
out, and give this covering all the amplitude of which it was 
capable, as they leered and ogled you from under their black 
masks with their big rolling eyes. 

Ever3^body has big rolling eyes here (unless, to be sure, they 
lose one of ophthalmia) . The Arab women are some of the 
noblest figures I have ever seen. The habit of carrying jars on 
the head always gives the figure grace and motion ; and the 
dress the women wear certainly displa3^s it to full advantage. 
I have brought a complete one home with me, at the service of 
any lady for a masqued ball. It consists of a coarse blue dress 
of calico, opened in front, and fastened with a horn button. 
Three yards of blue stuff for a veil ; on the top of the veil a jar 
to be balanced on the head ; and a little black strip of silk to 
fall over the nose, and leave the beautiful e^-es full liberty to 
roll and roam. But such a costume, not aided by any stays 
or an}' other article of dress whatever, can be worn only by a 
very good figure. I suspect it won't be borrowed for many 
balls next season. 

The men, a tall, handsome, noble race, are treated like dogs. 
I shall never forget riding through the crowded bazaars, my 
interpreter, or laquais-de-place, ahead of me to clear the way — 
when he took his whip and struck it over the shoulders of a man 
who could not or would not make way ! 

The man turned round — an old, venerable, handsome face, 
with awfully sad eyes, and a beard long and quite gray. He 
did not make the least complaint, but slunk out of the way, 
piteously shaking his shoulder. The sight of that indignity 
gave me a sickening feeling of disgust. I shouted out to the 
cursed lackey to hold his hand, and forbade him ever in my 
presence to strike old or young more ; but everybody is doing 
it. The whip is in everybody's hands : the Pasha's running 
footman, as he goes bustling through the bazaar ; the doctor's 
attendant, as he soberl}^ threads the crowd on his mare ; the 
negro slave, who is riding by himself, the most insolent of all, 
strikes and slashes about without mercy, and you never hear a 
single complaint. 

How to describe the beauty of the streets to you ! — the fan- 
tastic splendor ; the variety of the houses, and archways, and 
hanging roofs, and balconies, and porches ; the delightful acci- 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 433 

dents of light and shade which chequer them ; the noise, the 
bustle, the brillianc}^ of the crowd ; the interminable vast bazaars 
with their barbaric splendor ! There is a fortune to be made for 
painters in Cairo, and materials for a whole Academ}^ of them. 
I never saw such a variet^^ of architecture, of life, of pictu- 
resqueness, of brilliant color, and light and shade. There is a 
picture in every street, and at every bazaar stall. Some of 
these our celebrated water-color painter, Mr. Lewis, has pro- 
duced with admirable truth and exceeding minuteness and 
beauty ; but there is room for a hundred to follow him ; and 
should any artist (by some rare occurrence) read this, who has 
leisure, and wants to break new ground, let him take heart, 
and try a winter in Cairo, where there is the finest climate 
and the best subjects for his pencil. 

A series of studies of negroes alone would form a picture- 
book, delightfully grotesque. Mounting my donkey to-day, I 
took a ride to the desolate, noble old buildings outside the city, 
known as the Tombs of the Caliphs. Every one of these edi- 
fices, with their domes, and courts, and minarets, is strange and 
beautiful. In one of them there was an encampment of negro 
slaves newly arrived : some scores of them were huddled against 
the sumi}^ wall ; two or three of their masters lounged about the 
court, or la}^ smoking upon carpets. There was one of these 
fellows, a straight-nosed, ebon3'-faced Ab3^ssinian, with an ex- 
pression of such sinister good-humor in his handsome face as 
would form a perfect type of villan}'. He sat leering at me, 
over his carpet, as I endeavored to get a sketch of that incar- 
nate rascality. " Give me some mone}^" said the fellow. " I 
know what you are about. You will sell my picture for money 
when 3^ou get back to Europe ; let me have some of it now ! " 
But the very rude and humble designer was quite unequal to de- 
pict such a consummation and perfection of roguery ; so flung him 
a cigar, which he began to smoke, grinning at the giver. I re- 
quested the interpreter to inform him, b}'^ way of assurance of 
m}' disinterestedness, that his face was a great deal too ugly to 
be popular in Europe, and that was the particular reason why I 
had selected it. 

Then one of his companions got up and showed us his black 
cattle. The male slaves were chiefl}^ lads, and the women 
young, well formed, and abominabl}' hideous. The dealer 
pulled her blanket off one of them and bade her stand up, which 
she did with a great deal of shuddering modesty. She was coal 
black, her lips were the size of sausages. Her eyes large and 
good-humored ; the hair or wool on this 3 oung person's head 

28 



434 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

was curled and greased into a thousand filthy little ringlets. 
She was evidently the beauty of the flock. 

They are not unhappy ; the}' look to being bought, as many 
a spinster looks to an establishment in England ; once in a 
family the}^ are kindly treated and well clothed, and fatted, and 
are the merriest people of the whole communit3^ These were 
of a much more savage sort than the slaves I had seen in the 
horrible market at Constantinople, where I recollect a young 
creature — whilst I was looking at her and forming pathetic 
conjectures regarding her fate — smiling very good-humoredl}', 
and bidding the interpreter ask me to buy her for twenty 
pounds. 

From these Tombs of the Caliphs the Desert is before you. 
It comes up to the walls of the city, and stops at some gardens 
which spring up all of a sudden at its edge. You can see the 
first Station-house on the Suez Road ; and so from distance 
point to point, could ride thither alone without a guide. 

Asinus trotted gallantly into this desert for the space of a 
quarter of an hour. There we were (taking care to keep our 
backs to the city walls) , in the real actual desert : mounds upon 
mounds of sand, stretching away as far as the e^^e can see, until 
the dreary prospect fades away in the yellow horizon ! I had 
formed a finer idea of it out of " Eothen." Perhaps in a si- 
moom it may look more awful. The only adventure that befell 
in this romantic place was that asinus's legs went deep into a 
hole : whereupon his rider went over his head, and bit the sand, 
and measured his length there ; and upon this hint rose up, and 
rode home again. No doubt one should have gone out for a 
couple of da}^ march — as it was, the desert did not seem to 
me sublime, only uncomfortable. 

Very soon after this perilous adventure the sun likewise 
dipped into the sand (but not to rise therefrom so quickly as I 
had done) ; and I saw this daily phenomenon of sunset with 
pleasure, for I was engaged at that hour to dine with our old 

friend J , who has established himself here in the most 

complete Oriental fashion. 

You remember J , and what a dandy he was, the fault- 

lessness of his boots and cravats, the brillianc}' of his waistcoats 
and kid-gloves ; we have seen his splendor in Regent Street, 
in the Tuileries, or on the Toledo. My first object on arriving 
here was to find out his house, which he has taken far away 
from the haunts of European civilization, in the Arab quarter. 
It is situated in a cool, shady, narrow alley ; so narrow, that it 
was with great diflQculty — his Highness Ibrahim Pasha happen- 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 435 

ing to pass at the same momeut — that ni}^ little procession of 
two donkej's, mounted by self and valet-de-place, with the two 
donkey -bo3's our attendants, could range ourselves along the 
wall, and leave room for the august cavalcade. His Highness 
having rushed on (with an affable and good-humored salute to 
our imposing party), we made J.'s quarters; and in the first 
place, entered a broad coA'ered court or porch, where a swarth}', 
tawny attendant, dressed in blue, with white turban, keeps a 
perpetual watch. Servants in the East lie about all the doors, 
it appears ; and 3'ou clap 3'our hands, as thc}^ do in the dear old 
'^ Arabian Nights," to summon them. 

This servant disappeared through a narrow wicket, which he 
closed after him ; and went into the inner chambers to ask if 
his lord would receive us. He came back presently, and rising 
up from m}' donke}' , I confided him to his attendant, (lads more 
sharp, arch, and wicked than these donkey-bo3's don't walk the 
pave of Paris or London,) and passed the mysterious outer 
door. 

First we came into a broad open court, with a covered 
galler3' running along one side of it. A camel was reclining on 
the grass there ; near him was a gazelle, to glad J. with his 
dark blue eye ; and a numerous brood of hens and chickens, 
who furnish his liberal table. On the opposite side of the cov- 
ered gallery rose up the walls of his long, queer, many-win- 
dowed, many-galleried house. There were wooden lattices to 
those arched windows, through the diamonds of one of which I 
saw two of the most beautiful, enormous, ogling, black e3'es in 
the world, looking down upon the interesting stranger. Pigeons 
were flapping, and hopping, and fluttering, and cooing about. 
Happy pigeons, you are, no doubt, fed with crumbs from the 
henne-tipped fingers of Zuleika ! All this court, cheerful in the 
sunshine, cheerful with tfee astonishing brilliancy of the eyes 
peering out from the lattice bars, was as mould3^, ancient, and 
ruinous — as any gentleman's house in Ireland, let us say. The 
paint was peeling off" the rickety old carved galleries ; the ara- 
besques over the windows were chipped and worn ; — the 
ancientness of the place rendered it doubty picturesque. I 
have detained 3^ou a long time in the outer court. Why the 
deuce was Zuleika there, with the beautiful black e3'es ! 

Hence we passed into a large apartment, where there was a 
fountain ; and another domestic made his appearance, taking 
me in charge, and relieving the tawny porter of the gate. This 
fellow was clad in blue too, with a red sash and a gra3' beard. 
He conducted me into a great hall, where there was a great, 



436 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

large Saracenic oriel window. He seated me on a divan : and 
stalking off, for a moment, returned with a long pipe and a 
brass chafing-dish : he blew the coal for the pipe, which he mo- 
tioned me to smoke, and left me there with a respectful bow. 
This dela}', this mj'ster}^ of servants, that outer court with the 
camels, gazelles, and other beautiful-eyed things, affected me 
prodigiously all the time he was staying away ; and while I was 
examining the strange apartment and its contents, m}^ respect 
and awe for the owner increased vastly. 

As you will be giad to know how an Oriental nobleman 
(such as J. undoubtedly is) is lodged and garnished, let me de- 
scribe the contents of this hall of audience. It is about fort}^ 
feet long, and eighteen or twenty high. All the ceiling is 
carved, gilt, painted and embroidered with arabesques, and 
choice sentences of Eastern writing. Some Mameluke Aga, or 
Bey, whom Mehemet Ali invited to breakfast and massacred, 
was the proprietor of this mansion once : it has grown dingier, 
but, perhaps, handsomer, since his time. Opposite the divan 
is a great bay-window, with a divan likewise round the niche. 
It looks out upon a garden about the size of Fountain Court, 
Temple ; surrounded by the tall houses of the quarter. The 
garden is full of green. A great palm-tree springs up in the 
midst, with plentiful shrubberies, and a talking fountain. The 
room beside the divan is furnished with one deal table, value 
five shillings ; four wooden chairs, value six shillings ; and a 
couple of mats and carpets. The tables and chairs are luxuries 
imported from Europe. The regular Oriental dinner is put 
upon copper tra3^s, which are laid upon low stools. Hence 

J Effendi's house ma3^be said to be much more sumptuously 

furnished than those of the Be3^s and Agas his neighbors. 

When these tilings had been examined nt leisure, J ap- 
peared. Could it be the exquisite of0the --Europa" and the 
" Trois Freres ? " A man — in a long yellow gown, with a long 
beard somewhat tinged with gra}^, with his head shaved, and 
wearing on it first a white wadded cotton nightcap, second, a 
red tarboosh — made his appearance and welcomed me cor- 
dially. It was some time, as the Americans say, before I could 
" realize" the semiilant J. of old times. 

He shuffled off his outer slippers before he curled up on the 
divan beside me. He clapped his hands, and languidly called 
" Mustapha." Mustapha came with more lights, pipes, and 
coffee ; and then we fell to talking about London, and I gave 
him the last news of the comrades in that dear city. As we 
talked, his Oriental coolness and languor gave way to British 



FROM COKNHILL TO CAIRO. 437 

cordiality ; he was the most amusing companion of the Club 

once more. 

He has adapted himself outwardly, however, to the Oriental 
life. When he goes abroad he rides a gray horse with red 
housings, and has two servants to walk beside him. He wears 
a very handsome, grave costume of dark blue, consisting of an 
embroidered jacket and gaiters, and a pair of trousers, which 
would make a set of dresses for an English famil}^ His beard 
curls nobl}' over his chest, his Damascus scimitar on his thigh. 
His red cap gives him a venerable and Bey-like appearance. 
There is no gewgaw or parade about him, as in some of 3'our 
dandified young Agas. I should say that he is a Major-Gen- 
eral of Engineers, or a grave officer of State. We and the 
Turkified European, who found us at dinner, sat smoking in 
solemn divan. 

His dinners were excellent ; they were cooked by a regular 
Egyptian female cook. We had delicate cucumbers stuffed 
with forced-meats ; j^ellow smoking pilaffs, the pride of the 
Oriental cuisine ; kid and fowls a I'Aboukir and a la Pyramide : 
a number of little savory plates of legumes of the vegetable 
marrow sort : kibobs with an excellent sauce of plums and 
piquant herbs. We ended the repast with rub}^ pomegranates, 
pulled to pieces, deliciously cool and pleasant. For the meats, 
we certainl}^ ate them with the Infidel knife and fork ; but for 
the fruit, we put our hands into the dish and flicked them into 
our mouths in what cannot but be the true Oriental manner. 
I asked for lamb and pistachio-nuts, and cream-tarts au poivre; 
but J.'s cook did not furnish us with either of those historic 
dishes. And for drink, we had water freshened in the porous 
little pots of gray claj^, at whose spout every traveller in the 
East has sucked delighted. Also, it must be confessed, we 
drank certain sherbets, prepared by the two great rivals, Hadji 
Hodson and Bass Bey — the bitterest and most delicious of 
draughts ! O divine Hodson ! a camel's load of thy beer came 
from Beyrout to Jerusalem while we were there. How shall 
I ever forget the joy inspired by one of those foaming cool 
flasks ? 

We don't know the luxury of thirst in EngUsh climes. Sed- 
entary men in cities at least have seldom ascertained it ; but 
when they travel, our countrymen guard against it well. The 
road between Cairo and Suez is jonche with soda-water corks. 
Tom Thumb and his brothers might track their way across the 
desert by those landmarks. 

Cairo is magnificently picturesque ; it is fine to have palm- 



438 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

trees in jour gardens, and ride about on a camel ; but, after 
all, I was anxious to know what were the particular excite- 
ments of Eastern life, which detained J., who is a town-bred 
man, from his natural pleasures and occupations in London ; 
where his family don't hear from him, where his room is still 
kept read}" at home, and his name is on the list of his club ; 
and where his neglected sisters tremble to think that their 
Frederick is going about with a great beard and a crooked 
sword, dressed up like an odious Turk. In a ''lark" such a 
costume may be very well ; but home, London, a razor, 3'our 
sister to make tea, a pair of moderate Christian breeches in lieu 
of those enormous Turkish shulwars, are vastl}' more convenient 
in the long run. What was it that kept him away from these 
decent and accustomed delights? 

It couldn't be the black eyes jn the balconv — upon his 
honor she was only the black cook, who has done the pilaff, 
and stuffed the cucumbers. No, it was an indulgence of lazi- 
ness such as Europeans, Englishmen at least, don't know how 
to enjoy. Here he lives like a languid Lotus-eater — a dreamy, 
hazy, laz}^ tobaccofied life. He was away from evening-parties, 
he said; he needn't wear white kid- gloves, or starched neck- 
cloths, or read a newspaper. And even this life at Cairo 
was too civilized for him ; Englishmen passed through ; old 
acquaintances would call : the great pleasure of pleasures was 
life in the desert, — under the tents, with still more nothing to 
do than in Cairo ; now smoking, now cantering on Arabs, and 
no crowd to jostle 3'ou ; solemn contemplations of the stars at 
night, as the camels were picketed, and the fires and the pipes 
were lighted. 

The night-scene in the city is very striking for its vastness 
and loneliness. Everybody has gone to rest long before ten 
o'clock. There are no lights in the enormous buildings ; only 
the stars blazing above, with their astonishing brilhancy, in the 
blue, peaceful sky. Your guides cany a couple of little lan- 
terns, which redouble the darkness in the solitary, echoing 
street. Mysterious people are curled up and sleeping in the 
porches. A patrol of soldiers passes, and hails you. There is 
a light yet in one mosque, where some devotees are at prayers 
all night ; and 3"ou hear the queerest nasal music proceeding 
from those pious behevers. As 3"ou pass the mad-house, there 
is one poor fellow still talking to the moon — no sleep for him. 
He howls and sings there all the night — quite cheerfull}", how- 
ever. He has not lost his vanity with his reason ; he is a 
Prince in spite of the bars and the straw. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 439 

What to say about those famous edifices, which has not been 
better said elsewhere? — but 30U will not believe that we visited 
them, unless I bring some token from them. Here is one.* 

That white-capped lad skipped up the stones with a jug of 
water in his hand, to refresh wearj^ chmbers ; and, squatting 
himself down on the summit, was designed as 3'ou see. The 
vast, flat landscape stretches behind him ; the great winding 
river ; the purple city, with forts, and domes, and spires ; the 
green fields, and palm-groves, and speckled villages ; the plains 
still covered with shining inundations — the landscape stretches 
far, far awa}", until it is lost and mingled in the golden horizon. 
It is poor work, this landscape-painting in print. Shelley's 
two sonnets are the best views that I know of the Pyramids — 
better than- the realit}' ; for a man may lay down the book, and 
in quiet fanc}^ conjure up a picture out of these magnificent 
words, which shan't be disturbed by an}^ pettinesses or mean 
realities, — such as the swarms of howling beggars, who jostle 
you about the actual place, and scream in your ears incessantly, 
and hang on your skirts and bawl for mone}^ 

The ride to the Pyramids is one of the pleasantest possible. 
In the fall of the 3'ear, though the sky is almost cloudless above 
you, the sun is not too hot to bear ; and the landscape, re- 
freshed by the subsiding inundations, delightfully green and 
cheerful. We made up a party of some half-dozen from the 
hotel, a lad}' (the kind soda-water provider, for whose hospital- 
it}^ the most grateful compliments are hereby offered) being 
of the compiiny, bent like the rest upon going to the summit 
of Cheops. Those who were cautious and wise, took a brace of 
donkeys. At least five times during the route did ni}^ animals 
fall with me, causing me to repeat the Desert experiment over 
again, but with more success. The pace between a moderate 
pair of legs and the ground is not many inches. By eschewing 
stirrups, the donkey could fall, and the rider alight on the 
ground, with the greatest ease and grace. Almost everj^body 
was down and up again in the course of the day. 

We passed through the Ezbekieh and by the suburbs of the 
town, where the garden-houses of the Egyptian noblesse are 
situated, to Old Cairo, where a ferry-boat took the whole party 
across the Nile, with that noise and bawling vohibility in which 
the Arab people seem to be so unlike the grave and silent 
Turks ; and so took our course for some eight or ten miles over 
the devious track which the still outlying waters obliged us to 
pursue. The P3'ramids were in sight the whole wa}^ One or 

• This refers to an illustrated edition of the work. 



440 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

two thin, silvery clouds were hovering over them, and casting 
delicate, ros}^ shadows, upon the grand, simple, old piles. Along 
the track we saw a score of pleasant pictures of Eastern life : 
— The Pasha's horses and slaves stood caparisoned at his 
door ; at the gate of one country-house, T'am sony to say, the 
Bey's gig was in waiting, — a most unromantic chariot : the hus- 
bandmen were coming into the city, with their strings of donke3's 
and their loads ; as the}^ arrived, the}' stopped and sucked at 
the fountain : a column of red-capped troops passed to drill, with 
slouched gait, white uniforms, and glittering bayonets. Then 
we had the pictures at the quay : the ferr3^-boat, and the red- 
sailed river-boat, getting under weigh, and bound up the stream. 
There was the grain market, and the huts on the opposide side ; 
and that beautiful woman, with silver armlets, and a face the 
color of gold, which (the nose-bag having been luckily removed) 
beamed solemnly on us Europeans, like a great yellow harvest- 
moon. The bunches of purpling dates were pending from the 
branches ; gray cranes or herons were fl.ying over the cool, 
shining lakes, that the river's overflow had left behind ; water 
was gurghng through the courses by the rude locks and barriers 
formed there, and overflowing this patch of ground ; whilst the 
neighboring field was fast budding into the more brilliant fresh 
green. Single dromedaries were stepping along, their riders 
lolling on their hunches ; low sail-boats were lying in the canals ; 
now, we crossed an old marble bridge ; now, we went, one by 
one, over a ridge of slippery earth ; now, we floundered through 
a small lake of mud. At last, at about half a mile off the Pyra- 
mid, we came to a piece of water some two score yards broad, 
where a regiment of half-naked Arabs, seizing upon each indi- 
vidual of the party, bore us off on their shoulders, to the laugh- 
ter of all, and the great perplexity of several, who every moment 
expected to be pitched into one of the many holes with which 
the treacherous lake o.bounded. 

It was nothing but joking and laughter, bullj'ing of guides, 
shouting for interpreters, quarrelling about sixpences. We 
were acting a farce, with the Pyramids for the scene. There 
the}^ rose up enormous under our eyes, and the most absurd, 
trivial things were going on under their shadow. The sublime 
had disappeared, vast as thej^ were. Do you remember how 
Gulliver lost his awe of the tremendous Brobdingnag ladies? 
Every traveller must go through all sorts of chaffering, and 
bargaining, and paltry experiences, at this spot. You look 
up the tremendous steps, with a score of savage ruffians bellow- 
ing round you ; you hear faint cheers and cries high up, and 



FliOM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 441 

catch sight of Uttle reptiles crawling upwards ; or, having 
achieved the summit, they come hopping and bouncing down 
again from degree to degree, — the cheers and cries swell 
louder and more disagreeable ; presently the little jumping 
thing, no bigger than an insect a moment ago, bounces down 
upon you expanded into a panting Major of Bengal cavalry. 
He drives off the Arabs with an oath, — wipes his red shining 
face with his 3'ellow handkerchief, drops puffing on the sand in 
a shady corner, where cold fowl and hard eggs are awaiting 
him, and the next minute you see his nose plunged in a foam- 
ing beaker of brandy and soda-water. He can say now, and 
for ever, he has been up the Pyramid. There is nothing sub- 
Hme in it. You cast 3'our eye once more up that staggering 
perspective of a zigzag Hue, which ends at the summit, and 
wish you were up there — and down again. Forwards! — Up 
with you ! It must be done. Six Arabs are behind you, who 
won't let 3^ou escape if \'ou would. 

The importunity of these ruffians is a ludicrous annoyance 
to which a traveller must submit. For two miles before you 
reach the Pyramids they seize on jow and never cease howling. 
Five or six of them pounce upon one victim, and never leave 
him until they have carried him up aiid down. Sometimes they 
conspire to run a man up the huge stair, and bring him, half- 
killed and fainting, to the top. Always a couple of brutes 
insist upon impelhng you sternwards ; from whom the only 
means to release yourself is to kick out vigorously and unmer- 
cifully, when the Arabs will possibly retreat. The ascent is 
not the least romantic, or difficult, or subUme : you walk up a 
great broken staircase, of which some of the steps are four feet 
high. It's not hard, only a little high. You see no better 
view from the top thaia you beheld from the Ijottom : only a 
little more river, and sand, and rice-field. Yon jump down "'the 
big steps at your leisure ; but your meditations you must keep 
for after-times, — the cursed shrieking of the Arabs prevents 
all thought or leisure. 

— And this is all you have to tell about the Pyramids? 
Oh! for shame! Not a compHment to their age and size? 
Not a big phrase, —not a rapture? Do you mean to say that 
you had no feeling of respect and awe? Try, man, and build 
up a monument of words as lofty as they are '— they, whom 
" imber edax" and " aquilo impotens" and the flight of ages 
have not been able to destroy ! 

— No: be that work for great geniuses, great painters, 
great poets ! This quill was never made to take such flights ; 



442 EASTERN SKETCHES. 

it comes of the wing of a humble domestic bird, who walks a 
common ; who talks a great deal (and hisses sometimes) ; who 
can't fly far or high, and drops alwa3'S very quickly ; and whose 
unromantic end is, to be laid on a Michaelmas or Christmas 
table, and there to be discussed for half an hour — let us hope, 
with some relish. 



Another week saw us in the Quarantine Harbor at Malta, 
where seventeen da3^s of prison and quiet were almost agree- 
able, after the incessant sight-seeing of the last two months. 
In the interval, between the 23rd of August and the 27th of 
October, we ma}' boast of having seen more men and cities 
than most travellers have seen in such a time : — Lisbon, 
Cadiz, Gibraltar, Malta, Athens, Smyrna, Constantinople, Jeru- 
salem, Cairo. I shall have the carpet-bag which has visited 
these places in compau}^ with its owner, embroidered with their 
names ; as militar}" flags are emblazoned, and laid up in ordi- 
nary, to be looked at in old age. With what a number of 
sights and pictures, — of novel sensations, and lasting and 
dehghtful remembrances, does a man furnish his mind after 
such a tour I You forgef all the annoyances of travel ; but 
the pleasure remains with 3'ou, through that kind provision of 
nature by which a man forgets being ill, but thinks with joy 
of getting well, and can remember all the minute circumstances 
of his convalescence. I forget what sea-sickness is now : 
though it occupies a woful portion of my Journal. There 
was a time on board when the bitter ale was decidedly muddy ; 
and the cook of the ship deserting at Constantinople, it must 
be confessed his successor was for some time before he got his 
hand in. These sorrows have passed- away with the soothing 
influence of time : the pleasures of the vo3'age remain, let us 
hope, as long as life will endure. It was but for a couple of 
days that those shining columns of the Parthenon glowed under 
the blue sk}' there ; but the experience of a life could scarcely 
impress them more vividl3^ We saw Cadiz only for an hour ; 
but the white buildings, and the glorious blue sea, how clear 
the3" are to the memor3^ ! — with the tang of that gipsy's guitar 
dancing in the market-place, in the midst of the fruit, and the 
beggars, and the sunshine. Who can forget the Bosphorus, the 
brightest and fairest scene in all the world ; or the towering 
lines of Gibraltar ; or the great piles of Mafra, as we rode into 
the Tagus? As I write this, and think, back comes Rhodes, 
with its old towers and artillery, and that wonderful atmos* 




aiAFRA. 



FROM CORNHILL TO CAIRO. 443 

phere, and that astonishing blue sea which environs the island. 
The Arab riders go pacing over the plains of Sharon, in the 
rosy twilight, just before sunrise ; and I can see the ghastly 
Moab mountains, with the Dead Sea gleaming before them, from 
the mosque on the way towards Bethany. The black, gnarled 
trees of Gethsemane lie at the foot of Olivet, and the yellow 
ramparts of the citj^ rise up on the stony hills beyond. 

But the happiest and best of all the recollections, perhaps, 
are those of the hours passed at night on the deck, when the 
stars were shining overhead, and the hours were tolled at their 
time, and your thoughts were fixed upon home far away. As 
the sun rose I once heard the priest, from the minaret of Con- 
stantinople, crying out, " Come to prayer," with his shrill voice 
ringing through the clear air ; and saw, at the same hour, the 
Arab prostrate himself and pray, and the Jew Rabbi, bending 
over his book, and worshipping the Maker of Turk and Jew. 
Sitting at home in London, and writing this last Une of fare- 
well, those figures come back the clearest of all to the memory, 
with the picture, too, of our ship sailing over the peaceful Sab- 
bath sea, and our own prayers and services celebrated there. 
So each, in his fashion, and after his kind, is bowing down, and 
adoring the Father, who is equally above all. Cavil not, you 
brother or sister, if your neighbor's voice is not like yours ; only 
hope that his words are honest (as far as they may be), and his 
heart humble and thankful. 



THE END. 



THE lEISH SKETCH BOOK 

OF 1842. 



TO 

CHARLES LEVER, ESQ., 

or TEMPLEOGUE HOUSE, NEAR DUBLIN. 

My dear Lever, — Harry Lorrequer needs no compliment- 
ing in a dedication ; and I would not venture to inscribe this 
volume to the Editor of the " Dublin University Magazine," 
who, I fear, must disapprove of a great deal which it con- 
tains 

Bui allow me to dedicate my little book to a good Irishman 
(the hearty charity of whose visionary red-coats, some substan- 
tial personages in black might imitate to advantage), and to a 
friend from whom I have received a hundred acts of kindness 
and cordial hospitality. 

Laying aside for a moment the travelling-title of Mr. Tit- 
marsh, let me acknowledge these favors in my own name, and 
subscribe myself, my dear Lever, 

Most sincerely and gratefully yours, 

W. M. THACKERAY. 

London, April 27, 1843. 



I 



THE lEISH SKETCH BOOK 



CHAPTER I. 

A SUMMER DAY IN DUBLIN, OR THERE AND THEREABOUTS.^ 

The coach that brings the passenger by wood and mountain, 
by brawling waterfall and gloomy plain, by the lonely lake of 
Festiniog and across the swinging world's wonder of a Menai 
Bridge, through dismal Anglesea to dismal Holyhead — the Bir- 
mingham mail, — manages matters so cleverly, that after ten 
hours' ride the traveller is thrust incontinently on board the 
packet, and the steward says there's no use in providing dinner 
on board because the passage is so short. 

That is true : but why not give us half an hour on shore ? Ten 
hours spent on a coach-box render the dinner question one of 
extreme importance ; and as the packet reaches Kingstown at 
midnight, when all the world is asleep, the inn-larders locked up, 
and the cook in bed ; and as the mail is not landed until five in 
the morning (at which hour the passengers are considerately 
awakened by a great stamping and shouting overhead), might 
not ' ' Lord Lowther " give us one little half-hour ? Even the 
steward agreed that it was a useless and atrocious tyranny ; and, 
indeed, after a little demur, produced a half-dozen of fried eggs, 
a feeble makeshift for a dinner. 

Our passage across from the Head was made in a rain so 
pouring and steady, that sea and coast were entirely hidden 
from us, and one could see verj- little beyond the glowing tip 
of the cigar which remained alight nobly in spite of the 
weather. When the gallant exertions of that fiery spirit were 
over for ever, and burning bravely to the end it had breathed 
its last in doing its master service, all became black and cheer- 
less around ; the passengers had dropped off one b}^ one, pre- 
ferring to be dry aud ill below rather than wet and squeamish 



6 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

above : even the mate with his gold-laced cap (who is so aston- 
ishingly like Mr. Charles Dickens that he might pass for that 
gentleman) — even the mate said he would go to his cabin and 
turn in. So there remained nothing for it but to do as all the 
world had done. 

Hence it was impossible to institute the compariscai between 
the Ba}^ of Naples and that of DubHn (the Bee of Neeples the 
former is sometimes called in this countr}^), where I have heard 
the likeness asserted in a great number of societies and con- 
versations. But how could one see the Bay of Dublin in the 
dark ? and how, supposing one could see it, should a person 
behave who has never seen the Bay of Naples ? It is but to 
take the similaritj^ for granted, and remain in bed till morning. 

When ever3^body was awakened at five o'clock by the noise 
made upon the removal of the mail-bags, there was heard a 
cheerless dribbling and pattering overhead, which led one to 
wait still further until the rain should cease. At length the 
steward said the last boat was going ashore, and receiving 
half a crown for his own services (the regular tariff) intimated 
likewise that it was the custom for gentlemen to compliment 
the stewardess with a shiUing, which ceremony was also com- 
plied with. No doubt she is an amiable woman, and deserves 
any sum of money. As for inquiring whether she merited it 
or not in this instance, that surelj^ is quite unfair. A trav- 
eller who stops to inquire the deserts of every individual claim- 
ant of a shilling on his road, had best stay quiet at home. If 
we onl}^ got what we deserved^ — heaven save us ! — many of 
us might whistle for a dinner. 

A long pier, with a steamer or two at hand, and a few 
small vessels \y'\ng on either side of the jetty ; a town irreg- 
ularl}' built, with many handsome terraces, some churches, and 
showy-looking hotels ; a few people straggling on the beach ; 
two or three cars at the railroad station, which runs along the 
shore as far as Dublin ; the sea stretching interrninabty east- 
ward ; to the north the Hill of Howth, lying gray behind the 
mist ; and, directl}^ under his feet upon the wet, black, shin- 
ing, slippery deck, an agreeable reflection of his own legs, dis- 
appearing seemingly in the direction of the cabin from which 
he issues ; are the sights which a traveller may remark on com- 
ing on deck at Kingstown pier on a wet morning — let us say 
on an average morning ; for, according to the statement of well- 
informed natives, the Irish day is more often rainy than other- 
wise. A hideous obelisk, stuck upon four fat balls, and sur- 
mounted with a crown on a cushion (the latter were no bad 



THE IKISH SKETCH BOOK. 7 

emblems perhaps of the monarch in whose honnr fi.. 

a carman, who is cIawdH:g"::'ttt o'^Ch ^^1^"^"'* 
in his mouth, comes leisurely ui> to n.^rii?! ' '' ^ ^*''^^ 
to Dnblin? Is it natural ncolence o tht eff'V'T T'" ^^ 
because of the neio-hborino- ■oiw', ' ?• , ® ''^'"'^ °^ despair 
different?_4do"es no even tl '.,'"'''"'' ''•^"•^^^^ ^'"> so in- 

as he proposes t%u:t^r;-he^*;fritr*°^''^^ 
the answer. ^^^® ^"^^^ careless as to 

terest in the bargain or to nfllr T i • ^^^ "^<' '"^^s* i°- 

eomrade in any wa" ''^ overdnve or underbid their 

summer; and a great somv^ nf i '"' ''"'"'^ '"'° the™ i° 
be to them to hafe the fresh sel fe^rf '^°™f°'-' ™«t '' 
to the metropolis. sea-breezes and prospects so near 

the^fa:ilt^,e^''^l^^^^^^^^^ spacious; but 

terprising architects are ILlt i. "nAnished state, for en- 

terraces r nor are those alreil '^f "!""!"§ "^w roads, rows and 

Beside the ari^ toe atTc pSt' ^f ^tl,e"tow^' ""•'' "^'^^"^ '=°'"P'^*«- 
and nearer to Dubli sClh li 1= 7 " a commercial one, 
not a Kingstown look at all b -7 "?"^^<'" '^''"^'^ '^''^e 

period. It is quite cunonsi ?"-e evidently of the Dunleary 

are, how often the pabter^f the" ''',''™'^' T''^''^ '^' ^"^"Ps 
letters, and ends, for^rt'^^s'pte!?il=lK^^^^ 



8 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

lishman accustomed to the thriving neatness and regularity 
which characterize towns great and small in his own country, 
can't fail to notice the difference here. The houses have a 
battered, rakish look, and seem going to ruin before their time. 
As seamen of all nations come hither who liave made no vow 
of temperance, there are plent}' of liquor-shops still, and shabby 
cigar-shops, and shabb}^ milliners' and tailors' with fl3'-blown 
prints of old fashions. The bakers and apothecaries make a 
great brag of their calling, and 3^ou see medical hall, or pub- 
lic BAKERY, ballyragget FLOUR-STORE, (or whatcvcr the name 
ma}'' be,) pompousl}" inscribed over ver}^ humble tenements. 
Some comfortable grocers' and butchers' shops, and numbers 
of shabby sauntering people, the younger part of whom are 
barelegged and bareheaded, make up the rest of the picture 
which the stranger sees as his car goes jingling through the 
street. 

After the town come the suburbs of pleasure-houses ; low 
one-storied cottages for the most part : some neat and fresh, 
some that have passed awa}^ from the genteel state altogether, 
and exhibit downright povert}^ ; some in a state of transition, 
with broken windows and pretty romantic names upon tumble- 
down gates. Who lives in them? One fancies that the chairs 
and tables inside are broken, that the teapot on the breakfast- 
table has no spout, and the tablecloth is ragged and sloppy ; 
that the lad 3^ of the house is in dubious curl-papers, and the 
gentleman, with an imperial to his chin, wears a flaring dress- 
ing-gown all ragged at the elbows. 

To be sure, a traveller who in ten minutes can see not only 
the outsides of houses, but the interiors of the same, must 
have remarkably keen sight ; and it is early yet to speculate. 
It is clear, however, that these are pleasure-houses for a certain 
class ; and looking at the houses, one can't but fancy the inhab- 
itants resemble them somewhat. The car, on its road to Dub- 
lin, passes by numbers of these — by more shabbiness than a 
Londoner will see in the course of his home peregrinations for 
a 3^ear. 

The capabilities of the country, however, are ver}' great, 
and in manv instances have been taken advantage of : for j^ou 
see, besides the misery, numerous handsome houses and parks 
along the road, having fine lawns and woods ; and the sea is 
in our view at a quarter of an hour's ride from Dublin. It is 
the continual appearance of this sort of wealth which makes 
the povert3' more striking : and thus between the two (for there 
is no vacant space of fields between Kingstown and Dublin) 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 9 

the car reaches the city. There is but little commerce on this 
road, which was also in extremely bad repair. It is neglected 
for the sake of its thriving neighbor the railroad ; on which a 
dozen pretty little stations accommodate the inhabitants of the 
various villages through which we pass. 

The entrance to the capital is very handsome. There is no 
bustle and throng of carriages, as in London ; but you pass 
b}' numerous rows of neat houses, fronted with gardens and 
adorned with all sorts of ga3'-looking creepers. Pretty market- 
gardens, with trim beds of plants and shining glass-houses, 
give the suburbs a riante and cheerful look ; and, passing un- 
der the arch of the railwa}-, we are in the cit}^ itself. Hence 
you come upon several old-fashioned, well-built, airy, stately 
streets, and through FitzMalliam Square, a noble place, the gar- 
den of which -is full of flowers and foliage. The leaves are 
green, and not black as in similar places in London ; the red 
brick houses tall and handsome. Presentl}' the car stops before 
an extremely big red house, in that extremely large square, 
Stephen's Green, where Mr. O'Connell sa^'s there is one da}' or 
other to be a Parliament. There is room enough for that, or 
for any other edifice which fancy or patriotism may have a 
mind to erect, for part of one of the sides of the square is not 
yet built, and you see the fields and the country beyond. 



This then is the chief city of the aliens. — The hotel to 
which I had been directed is a respectable old edifice, much fre- 
quented by families from the countr}^, and where the solitary 
traveller may likewise find societ}' : for he may either use the 
" Shelburne" as an hotel or a boarding-house, in which latter 
case he is comfortably accommodated at the very moderate 
daily charge of six-and-eight-pence. For this charge a copious 
breakfast is provided for him in the coifee-room, a perpetual 
luncheon is likewise there spread, a plentiful dinner is ready at 
six o'clock : after which there is a drawing-room and a rubber 
of whist, with tay and coflfee and cakes in plenty to satisfy the 
largest appetite. The hotel is majestically conducted by clerks 
and other oflflcers ; the landlord himself does not appear, after 
the honestf*A3omfortable English fashion, but lives in a private 
mansion hard by, where his name may be read inscribed on a 
brass-plate, hke that of any other private gentleman. 

A woman melodiously crying '' Dublin Ba}' herrings " passed 
just as we came up to the door, and as that fish is famous 



10 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

throughout Europe, I seized the earhest opportunity and ordered 
a broiled one for breakfast. It merits all its reputation : and 
in this respect I should think the Bay of Dublin is far superior 
to its rival of Naples. Are there an}^ herrings in Naples Ba}-? 
Dolphins there may be ; and Mount Vesuvius, to be sure, is 
bigger than even the Hill of Howth ; but a dolphin is better in 
a sonnet than at a breakfast, and what poet is there that, at cer- 
tain periods of the day, would hesitate in his choice between 
the two ? 

With this famous broiled herring the morning papers are 
served up ; and a great part of these, too, gives opportunity^ of 
reflection to the new-comer, and shows him how different this 
countr}' is from his own. Some hundred 3'ears hence, when 
students want to inform themselves of the history of the present 
day, and refer to files of Times and Chronicle for the purpose, 
I think it is possible that they will consult, not so much those 
luminous and philosophical leading-articles which call our at- 
tention at present both b}^ the majest}' of their eloquence and 
the largeness of their t3^pe, but that the}^ will turn to those 
parts of the journals into which information is squeezed in the 
smallest possible print : to the advertisements, namely, the law 
and police reports, and to the instructive narratives supplied 
by that ill-used body of men who transcribe knowledge at the 
rate of a penny a line. 

The papers before me ( The Morning Register^ Liberal and 
Roman Catholic, Saunders's News-Letter^ neutral and Conserva- 
tive,) give a lively picture of the movement of cit}' and country 
on this present fourth day of Jul}^, 1842, and the Englishman 
can scarcely fail, as he reads them, to note many small points 
of difference existing between his own countr}^ and this. How 
do the Irish amuse themselves in the capital? The love for 
theatrical exhibitions is evidently not \Qvy great. Theatre 
Ro3'al — Miss Kemble and the Sonnambula, an Anglo-Italian 
importation. Theatre Ilo3^al, Abbey Street — The Temple of 
Magic and the Wizard, last week. Adelphi Theatre, Great 
Brunswick Street — The Original Seven Lancashire Bell-ring- 
ers : a delicious excitement indeed! Portobello Gardens — 
" The last eruption but six," says the advertisement in capi- 
tals. And, finally, "Miss Hayes will give her first and fare- 
well concert at the Rotunda, previous to leaving *'her native 
30untry." Onl}^ one instance of Irish talent do we read of, and 
that, in a desponding tone, announces its intention of quitting 
its native country. All the rest of the pleasures of the evening 
are importations from cockne3'-land. The Sonnambula from 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 11 

Covent Garden, the Wizard from the Strand, the Seven Lan- 
cashire Bell-ringers from IsUngton, or the City Road, no doubt ; 
and as for "The last Eruption but Six," it'has erumped near 
the "Elephant and Castle" any time these two years, until 
the cocknej's would wonder at it no longer. 

The commercial advertisements are but few — a few horses 
and cars for sale ; some flaming announcements of insurance 
companies ; some " emporiums " of Scotch tweeds and English 
broadcloths ; an auction for damaged sugar ; and an estate or 
,two for sale. They lie in the columns languidly, and at their 
ease as it were : how different from the throng, and squeeze, 
and bustle of the commercial part of a London paper, where 
every man (except Mr. George Robins) states his case as briefly 
as possible, because thousands more are to be heard besides 
himself, and as if he had no time for talking ! 

The most active advertisers are the schoolmasters. It is 
now the happy time of the Midsummer holidays ; and the peda- 
gogues make wonderful attempts to encourage parents, and to 
attract fresh pupils for the ensuing half-3^ear. Of all these an- 
nouncements that of Madame Shan ah an (a dehghtful name) is 
perhaps the most brilliant. "To Parents and Guardians.— 
Paris. — Such parents and guardians as may wish to entrust 
their children for education in its fullest extent to Madame 
Shanahan, can have the advantage of being conducted to Paris 
by her brother, the Rev. el. P. O'Reilly, of Church Street 
Chapel : " which admirable arrangement carries the parents to 
Paris and leaves the children in Dublin. Ah, Madame, 3'ou 
ma}^ take a French title ; but your heart is still in }' our country, 
and you are to the fullest extent an Irishwoman still ! 

Fpnd legends are to be found in Irish books regarding 
places where you may^ now see a round tower and a little old 
chapel, twelve feet square, where famous universities are once 
said to have stood, and which have accommodated m3'riads of 
students. Mrs. Hall mentions Glendalough, in Wicklow, as 
one of these places of learning ; nor can the fact be questioned, 
as the universities existed hundreds of years since, and no sort 
of records are left regarding them. A century hence some an- 
tiquar}^ may light upon a Dublin paper, and form marvellous 
calculations regarding the state of education in the country. 
For instance, at Bective House Seminar}^, conducted b}- Dr. 
J. L. Burke, ex-Scholar T.C.D., no less than two hundred and 
three young gentlemen took prizes at the Midsummer examina- 
tion : nay, some of the most meritorious carried off a dozen 
premiums apiece. A Dr. Delamere, ex-Scholar T.C.D., dis- 



12 THE IKISH SKETCH BOOK. 

tributecl three hundred and twenty rewards to his young friends : 
and if we allow that one lad in twenty is a prizeman, it is clear 
that there must be six thousand four hundred and forty youths 
under the Doctor's care. 

Other schools are advertised in the same journals, each with 
its hundred of prize-bearers ; and if other schools are advertised, 
how many more must there be in the country which are not ad- 
vertised ! There must be hundreds of thousands of prizemen, 
millions of scholars ; besides national-schools, hedge-schools, 
infant-schools, and the like. The EngUsh reader will see the 
accuracy of the calculation. 

In the Morning Register^ the Englishman will find something 
to the full as curious and startling to him ; you read gravely in 
the English language how the Bishop of Aureliopolis has just 
been consecrated ; and that the distinction has been conferred 
upon him by — the Holy Pontiff! — the Pope of Rome, by all 
that is holy ! Such an announcement sounds quite strange in 
English^ and in your own country, as it were : or isn't it your own 
country? Suppose the Archbishop of Canterbury were to send 
over a clergyman to Rome, and consecrate him Bishop of the Pal- 
atine or the Suburra, I wonder how his Holiness would like that f 

There is a report of Dr. Milej-'s sermon upon the occasion 
of the new bishop's consecration ; and the Register happily 
lauds the discourse for its " refined and fervent eloquence." 
The Doctor salutes the Lord Bishop of Aureliopolis on his ad- 
mission among the "Princes of the Sanctuary," gives a blow 
en passant at the Established Church, whereof the revenues, he 
elegantly says, " might excite the zeal of Dives or Epicurus to 
become a bishop," and having vented his sly wrath upon the 
" courtly artifice and intrigue " of the Bench, proceeds to make 
the most outrageous comparisons with regard to my Lord of 
Aureliopolis; his virtues, his sincerity, and the severe priva- 
tions and persecutions which acceptance of the episcopal office 
entails upon him. 

" That very evening," saj^s the Register^ " the new bishop 
entertained at dinner, in the chapel-house, a select number of 
friends ; amongst whom were the officiating prelates and cler- 
gymen who assisted in the ceremonies of the day. The repast 
was provided b}' Mr. Jude, of Grafton Street, and was served 
up in a style of elegance and comfort that did great honor to 
that gentleman's character as a restaurateur. The wines were 
of the richest and rarest quality. It ma}^ be truly said to have 
been an entertainment where the feast of reason and the flo\^ 
of soul predominated. The company broke up at nine." 



THE IKISH SKETCH BOOK. 13 

And so my lord is scarcely out of chapel but his privations 
begin ! Well. Let us hope that, in the course of his episco- 
pacy, he may incur no greater hardships, and that Dr. Mile}' 
may come to be a bishop too in his time ; when perhaps he will 
have a better opinion of the Bench. 

The ceremony and feelings described are curious, I think ; 
and more so perhaps to a person who was in England only 
yesterday, and quitted it just as their Graces, Lordships, and 
Reverences were sitting down to dinner. Among what new 
sights, ideas, customs, does the English traveller find himself 
after that brief six-hours' journe}^ from Holyhead ! 

There is but one part more of the papers to be looked at ; 
and that is the most painful of all. In the law-reports of the 
Tipperary special commission sitting at Clonmel, you read that 
Patrick Bj^rne is brought up for sentence, for the murder of 
Robert Hall, Esq. : and Chief Justice Doherty saj's, "Patrick 
B3'rne, I will not now recapitulate the circumstances of your 
enormous crime, but guiltj^ as you are of the barbarit}' of hav- 
ing perpetrated with 3'our hand the foul murder of an unoffend- 
ing old man — barbarous, cowardl}', and cruel as that act was 
— there lives one more guiltj'' man, and that is he whose dia- 
bolical mind hatched the foul conspirac}' of which you were but 
the instrument and the perpetrator. Whoever that ma}' be, I 
do not env}' him his protracted existence. He has sent that 
aged gentleman, without one moment's warning, to face his 
God ; but he has done more : he has brought 3'ou, unhappy 
man, with more deliberation and more cruelt}', to face your God, 
with the weight of that man's blood upon you. I have now only 
to pronounce the sentence of the law : " — it is the usual sen- 
tence, with the usual pra3'er of the judge, that the Lord ma3^ 
have merc3' upon the convict's soul. 

Timoth3' Woods, a young man of twenty 3'ears of age, is 
then tried for the murder of Michael Laffan. The Attorney- 
General states the case : — On the 19th of Ma3'last, two assas- 
sins dragged Laffan from the house of Patrick Cummins, fired 
a pistol-shot at him, and left him dead as the3' thought. Laffan, 
though mortally wounded, crawled away after the fall ; when 
the assassins, still seeing him give signs of life, rushed after 
him, fractured his skull by blows of a pistol, and left him on a 
dunghill dead. There Laffan's body la3' for several hours, and 
nobody dared to touch it. Laffan's widow found the body there 
two hours after the murder, and an inquest was held on the body 
as it lay on the dunghill. Laffan was driver on the lands of Kil- 
nertin, which were formerly held by Pat Cummins, the man who 



14 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

had the charge of the lands before Laffan was murdered ; the lat- 
ter was dragged out of Cummins's house in the presence of a 
witness who refused to swear to the murderers, and was shot 
in sight of another witness, James Meara, who with other men 
was on the road : when asked wliether he cried out, or whether 
he went to assist the deceased, Meara answers, '' Indeed I did 
not ; we would not interfere — it was no business of ours I " 

Six more instances are given of attempts to murder ; on 
which the judge, in passing sentence, comments in the following 
way: — 

" The Lord Chief Justice addressed the several persons, and 
said — It was now his painful dut}^ to pronounce upon them 
severally and respectively the punishment which the law and 
the court awarded against them for the crimes of which they 
had been convicted. Those crimes were one and all of them 
of no ordinary enormity — they were crimes which, in point of 
morals, involved the atrocious guilt of murder ; and if it had 
pleased God to spare their souls from the pollution of that 
offence, the court could not still shut its eyes to the fact, that 
although death had not ensued in consequence of the crimes of 
which they had been found guilty, yet it was not owing to their 
forbearance that such a dreadful crime had not been perpetrated. 
The prisoner, Michael Hughes, had been convicted of firing a 
gun at a person of the name of John Eyan (Luke) ; his horse 
had been killed, and no one could say that the balls were not 
intended for the prosecutor himself. The prisoner had fired 
one shot himself, and then called on his companion in guilt to 
discharge another. One of these shots killed Ryan's mare, and 
it was by the mercy of God that the life of the prisoner had 
not become forfeited by his own act. The next culprit was 
John Pound, who was equall}' guilty of the intended outrage 
perpetrated on the life of an unoffending individual — that indi- 
vidual a female, surrounded by her little children, five or six in 
number — with a complete carelessness to the probable conse- 
quences, while she and her famih^ were going, or had gone, to bed. 
The contents of a gun were discharged through the door, which 
entered the panel in three different places. The deaths resulting 
from this act might have been extensive, but it was not a mat- 
ter of any moment how many were deprived of life. The 
woman had just risen from her prayers, preparing herself to 
sleep under the protection of that arm which would shield the 
child and protect the innocent, when she was wounded. As to 
Cornelius Flynn and Patrick Dwyer, they likewise were the 
subjects of similar imputations and similar observations. There 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 16 

was a very slight difference between them, but not such as to 
amount to an}^ real distinction. The}^ had gone upon a com- 
mon, illegal purpose, to the house of a respectable individual, 
for the purpose of interfering with the domestic arrangements 
he thought fit to make. They had no sort of right to interfere 
with the disposition of a man's affairs ; and what would be the 
consequences if the reverse were to be held ? No imputation 
had ever been made upon the gentleman whose house was vis- 
ited, but he was desired to dismiss another, under the pains 
and penalties of death, although that other was not a retained 
servant, but a friend who had come to Mr. Hogan on a visit. 
Because this visitor used sometimes to inspect the men at work, 
the lawless edict issued that he should be put slwslj. Good 
God ! to what extent did the prisoners and such misguided men 
intend to carry out their objects ? Where was their dictation 
to cease ? are the}^ and those in a similar rank, to take upon 
themselves to regulate how many and what men a farmer should 
take into his emplo3aiient ? Were thc}^ to be the judges whether 
a servant had discharged his dut}' to his principal? or was it 
because a visitor happened to come, that the host should turn 
him away, under the pains and penalties of death? His lord- 
ship, after adverting to the guilt of the prisoners in this case — 
the last two persons convicted, Thos. Stapleton and Thos. 
Gleeson — said their case was so recently before the public, 
that it was sufficient to say thc}^ were morally guilty of what 
might be considered wilful and deliberate murder. Murder 
was most awful, because it could onh^ be suggested by delib- 
erate malice, and the act of the prisoners was the result of 
that base, malicious, and diabolical disposition. What was the 
cause of resentment against the unfortunate man who had been 
shot at, and so desperately wounded? Why, he had dared to 
comply with the wishes of a just landlord ; and because the 
landlord, for the benefit of his tenantr}-, proposed that the farms 
should be squared, those who acquiesced in his wishes were to 
be equalh' the victims of the assassin. AYhat were the facts 
in this case ? The two prisoners at the bar, Stapleton and Glee- 
son, sprung out at the man as he was leaving work, placed him 
on his knees, and without giving him a moment of preparation, 
commenced the work of blood, intending deliberatel}^ to de- 
spatch that unprepared and unoffending individual to eternit}'. 
What country was it that the}^ lived in, in which such crimes 
could be perpetrated in the open Ught of day ? It was not nec- 
essary that deeds of darkness should be shrouded in the clouds 
of night, for the darkness of the deeds themselves was consid- 



16 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

ered a sufficient protection. He (the Chief Justice) was not 
aware of any sohtar}^ instance at the present commission, to 
show that the crimes committed were the consequences of pov- 
ert}". Povert}" should be no justification, however ; it might 
be some Uttle palliation, but on no trial at this commission did 
it appear that the crime could be attributed to distress. His 
lordship concluded a most impressive address, by sentencing 
the six prisoners called up, to transportation for life. 

" The clock was near midnight as the court was cleared, 
and the whole of the proceedings were solemn and impressive 
in the extreme. The commission is likely to prove extremely 
beneficial in its results on the future tranquillit}' of the coun- 
try." 

I confess, for my part, to that common cant and sickly 
sentimentality, which, thank God ! is felt by a great number 
of people now-a-days, and which leads them to revolt against 
murder, whether performed by a ruffian's knife or a hangman's 
rope : whether accompanied with a curse from the thief as he 
blows his victim's brains out, or a prayer from m}' lord on the 
bench in his wig and black cap! Naj', is all the cant and sickly 
sentimentalit}"^ on our side, and might not some such charge be 
applied to the admirers of the good old fashion ? Long ere this 
is printed, for instance, B3'rne and Woods have been hanged : * 
sent " to face their God," as the Chief Justice says, " with the 
weight of their victim's blood upon them," — a just observation ; 
and remember that it is ive who send them. It is true that the 
judge hopes Heaven will have mere*}' upon their souls ; but are 
such recommendations of particular weight because thej^ come 
from the bench? Psha ! If we go on killing people without 
giving them time to repent, let us at least give up the cant of 
praying for their souls' salvation. We find a man drowning in 
a well, shut the lid upon him, and heartily pra}^ that he ma}^ get 
out. Sin has hold of him, as the two ruffians of Laffan j^onder, 
and we stand aloof, and hope that he ma}^ escape. Let us give 
up this ceremon}^ of condolence, and be honest, like the wit- 
ness, and say, " Let him save himself or not, it's no business 
of ours." .... Here a waiter, with a very broad, though insin- 
uating accent says, "Have you done with the Sandthers^ sir! 
there's a gentleman waiting for't these two hours." And so 

* The two men were executed pursuant to sentence, and both persisted 
solemnly in denying their guilt. There can be no doubt of it : but it 
appears to be a point of honor with these unhappy men to make no state- 
ment which may incriminate the witnesses who appeared on their behalf, 
and on tlieir part perjured themselves equally. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 17 

he carries off that strange picture of pleasure and pain, trade, 
theatres, schools, courts, churches, life and death, in Ireland, 
which a man ma}' bu}^ for a fourpenny-piece. 



The papers being read, it became m}^ duty to discover the 
town ; and a handsomer town, with fewer people in it, it is 
impossible to see on a summer's day. In the whole wide square 
of Stephen's Green, I think there were not more than two nurs- 
ery-maids to keep compau}^ with the statue of George I. , who 
rides on horseback in the middle of the garden, the horse having 
his foot up to trot, as if he wanted to go out of town too. Small 
troops of dirty children (too poor and dirty to have lodgings at 
Kingstown) were squatting here and there upon the sunshiny 
steps, the only clients at the thresholds of the professional 
gentlemen whose names figure on brass-plates on the doors. 
A stand of laz}^ carmen, a policeman or two with clinking boot- 
heels, a couple of moaning beggars leaning against the rails 
and calling upon the Lord, and a fellow with a toj' and book 
stall, where the lives of St. Patrick, Robert Emmett, and Lord 
Edward Fitzgerald may be bought for double their value, were 
all the population of the Green. 

At the door of the Kildare Street Club, I saw eight gentle- 
men looking at two bo^^s playing at leapfrog : at the door of 
the University six laz}^ porters, in jockey-caps, were sunning 
themselves on a bench — a sort of blue-bottle race ; and the 
Bank on the opposite side did not look as if sixpence-worth of 
change had been negotiated there during the day. There was 
a lad pretending to sell umbrellas under the colonnade, almost 
the onlj' instance of trade going on ; and I began to think of 
Juan Fernandez, or Cambridge in the long vacation. In the 
courts of the College, scarce the ghost of a gyp or the shadow 
of a bed-maker. 

In spite of the solitude, the square of the College is a fine 
sight : a large ground, surrounded b}^ buildings of various ages 
and styles, but comfortable, handsome, and in good repair ; a 
modern row of rooms ; a row that has been Elizabethan once ; 
a hall and senate-house, facing each other, of the st3de of 
George I. ; and a noble library, with a range of many windows, 
and a fine manly, simple fagade of cut stone. The librar}' was 
shut. The librarian, I suppose, is at the seaside ; and the only 
part of the establishment which I could see was the museum, 
to which one of the jockey-capped porters conducted me, up a 

2 



18 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

wide, dismal staircase, (adorned with an old pair of jack-boots, 
a dust}^ canoe or two, a few helmets, and a South Sea Islander's 
armor,) which passes through a hall hung round with cobwebs 
(with which the blue-bottles are too wise to meddle), into an 
old mould}^ room, filled with dingy glass-cases, under which the 
articles of curiosity or science were partially visible. In the 
middle was a very seedy camelopard (the word has grown to be 
English b}^ this time), the straw splitting through his tight old 
skin and the black cobbler's- wax stuffing the dim orifices of his 
eyes. Other beasts formed a pleasing group around him, not 
so tall, but equall}^ mould}^ and old. The porter took me round 
to the cases, and told me a great number of fibs concerning 
their contents : there was the harp of Brian Borou, and the 
sword of some one else, and other cheap old gimcracks with 
their corollar^^ of lies. The place would have been a disgrace 
to Don Saltero. I was quite glad to walk out of it, and down 
the dirty staircase again : about the ornaments of which the 
jockej'-capped gyp had more figments to tell ; an atrocious one 
(I forget what) relative to the pair of boots ; near which — 
a fine specimen of collegiate taste — were the shoes of Mr. 
O'Brien, the Irish giant. If the collection is worth preserving, 
— and indeed the mineralogical specimens look quite as awful 
as those in the British Museum, — one thing is clear, that the 
rooms are worth sweeping. A pail of water costs nothing, a 
scrubbing-brush not much, and a charwoman might be hired for 
a trifle, to keep the room in a decent state of cleanliness. 

Among the curiosities is a mask of the Dean — not the 
scoffer and giber, not the fiery politician, nor the courtier of 
St. John and Harle}^ equally ready with servilit}^ and scorn ; 
but the poor old man, whose great intellect had deserted him, 
and who died old, wild, and sad. The tall forehead is fallen 
away in a ruin, the mouth has settled in a hideous, vacant 
smile. Well, it was a merc}^ for Stella that she died first : it 
was better that she should be killed b}^ his unkindness than by 
the sight of his misery ; which, to such a gentle heart as that, 
would have been harder still to bear. 

The Bank, and other public buildings of Dublin, are justly 
famous. In the former may still be seen the room which was 
the House of Lords formerly, and where the Bank directors now 
sit, under a clean marble image of George III. The House of 
Commons has disappeared, for the accommodation of clerks and 
cashiers. The interior is light, splendid, air}^, well-furnished, 
and the outside of the building not less so. The Exchange, 
hard b}^, is an equally magnificent structure ; but the genius of 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 19 

commerce has deserted it, for all its architectural beauty. There 
was nobody inside when I entered but a pert statue of George 
III. in a Roman toga, simpering and turning out his toes ; and 
two dirty children playing, whose hoop-sticks caused great clat- 
termg echoes under the vacant sounding dome. The neighbor- 
hood is not cheerful, and has a dingy, poverty-stricken look. 

Walkmg towards the river, you have on either side of you, 
at Carlisle Bridge, a very brilliant and beautiful prospect : the 
Four Courts and their dome to the left, the Custom House and 
Its dome to the right; and in this direction seaward, a con- 
siderable number of vessels are moored, and the quays are 
black and busy with the cargoes discharged from ships. Sea- 
men cheering, herring- women bawling, coal-carts loading — the 
scene is animated and lively. Yonder is the famous Corn 
Exchange ; but the Lord Mayor is attending to his duties in 
Parliament, and little of note is going on. I had just passed 
his lordship's mansion in Dawson Street, — a queer old dirty 
brick house, with dumpy urns at each extremity, and looking as 
if a story of it had been cut off— a rasee-house. Close at 
hand, and peering over a paKng, is a statue of our blessed 
sovereign George II. How absurd these pompous images look, 
of defunct majesties, for whom no breathing soul cares a half- 
penny ! It is not so with the effigy of William III., who has 
done something to merit a statue. At this minute the Lord 
Mayor has WiHiam's effigy under a canvas, and is painting him 
of a bright green, picked out with yellow — his lordship's own 
livery. ^ 

The view along the quays to the Four Courts has no small 
resemblance to a view along the quays at Paris, though not so 
lively as are even those quiet walks. The vessels do not come 
above-bridge, and the marine population remains constant about 
them, and about numerous dirty liquor-shops, eating-houses, and 
marine-store estabUshments, which are kept for their accom- 
modation along the quay. As far as you can see, the shinino- 
Liffey flows away eastward, hastening (like the rest of the 
inhabitants of Dublin) to the sea. 

In front of Carhsle Bridge, and not in the least crowded, 
though in the midst of SackviUe Street, stands Nelson upon a 
stone pillar. The Post Office is on his right hand (only it is 

w f'^^.^'.?'''^ """ ^'^ ^^^*' "G^resham's" and the "Imperial 
Hotel. ^ Of the latter let me say (from subsequent experience) 
that It IS oriiamented by a cook who could dress a dinner by the 
side of M. Borel or M. Soyer. Would there were more such 
ai-tists in this ill-fated country! The street is exceedingly 



20 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

broad and liandsome ; the shops at the commencement, rich 
and spacious ; bat in Upper Sackville Street, which closes with 
the pretty building and gardens of the Rotunda, the appearance 
of wealth begins to fade somewhat, and the houses look as if 
they had seen better da3's. Even in this, the great street of 
the town, there is scarcely an}^ one, and it is as vacant and 
listless as Pall Mall in October. In one of the streets off Sack- 
ville Street, is the house and exhibition of the Irish Academy, 
which I went to see, as it was positively to close at the end of 
the week. While I was there, two other people came in ; and 
we had, besides, the mone}- -taker and a porter, to whom the 
former was reading, out of a newspaper, those Tipperary mur- 
ders which were mentioned in a former page. The echo took 
up the theme, and hummed it gloomily through the vacant 
place. 

The drawings and reputation of Mr. Burton are well known 
in England : his pieces were the most admired in the collection. 
The best draughtsman is an imitator of Maclise, Mi^ Bridgeman, 
whose pictures are full of vigorous drawing, and remarkable 
too for their grace. I gave my catalogue to the two young ladies 
before mentioned, and have forgotten the names of other artists 
of merit, whose works decked the walls of the little gallery. 
Here, as in London, the Art Union is making a stir ; and 
several of the pieces were marked as the property of members 
of that body. The possession of some of these one would not be 
inclined to covet ; but it is pleasant to see that people begin to 
bu}^ pictures at all, and there will be no lack of artists presentl}', 
in a countr}' where nature is so beautiful, and genius so plenty. 
In speaking of the fine arts and of views of Dublin, it may be 
said that Mr. Petrie's designs for Curry's Guide-book of the 
City are exceedingly beautiful, and, above all, trustworthy : no 
common quality in a descriptive artist at present. 

Having a couple of letters of introduction to leave, I had the 
pleasure to find the blinds down at one house, and the window 
in papers at another ; and at each place the knock was answered 
in that leisurely way, by one of those dingy female lieutenants 
who have no need to tell you that families are out of town. So 
the solitude became very painful, and I thought I would go 
back and talk to the waiter at the '' Shelburne," the only man 
in the whole kingdom that I knew. I had been accommodated 
with a queer little room, and dressing-room on the ground-floor, 
looking towards the Green : a black-faced, good-humored cham- 
ber-maid had promised to perform a deal of scouring which was 
evidently necessary, (a fact she might have observed for six 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 21 

months back, onl}" she is no doubt of an absent turn,) and 
when I came back from the walk, I saw the Uttle room was 
evidently enjo3ing itself in the sunshine, for it had opened its 
window, and was taking a breath of fresh air, as it looked out 
upon the Green. 

As I came up to it in the street, its appearance made me 
burst out laughing, ver}^ much to the surprise of a ragged 
cluster of idlers lolUng upon the steps next door ; and I have 
drawn it here, not because it is a particular!}* picturesque or 
rare kind of window, but because, as I fanc}*, there is a sort of 
moral in it.* You don't see such windows commonl}' in respect- 
able English inns — windows leaning gracefully upon hearth- 
brooms for support. Look out of that window without the 
hearth-broom and it would cut 3'our head off: how the beggars 
would start that are always sitting on the steps next door ! Is 
it prejudice that makes one prefer the English window, that 
relies on its own ropes and ballast (or lead if you like), and 
does not need to be propped by an}" foreign aid? or is this only 
a solitary instance of the kind, and are there no other specimens 
in Ireland of the careless, dangerous, extravagant hearth-broom 
system ? 

In the midst of these reflections (which might have been 
carried much farther, for a person with an allegorical turn 
might examine the entire country through this window) , a most 
wonderful cab, with an immense prancuig cab-horse, was seen 
to stop at the door of the hotel, and Pat the waiter tumbling 
into the room swiftly with a card in his hand, says, " Sir, the 
gentleman of this card is waiting for you at the door." Mon 
Dieu ! it was an invitation to dinner ! and I almost leapt into 
the arms of the man in the cab — so delightful was it to find a 
friend in a place where, a moment before, I had been as lonely 
as Robinson Crusoe. 

The only drawback, perhaps, to pure happiness, when riding 
in such a gorgeous equipage as this, was that we could not drive 
up Regent Street, and meet a few creditors, or acquaintances 
at least. However, Pat, I thought, was exceedingly awe- 
stricken by my disappearance in this vehicle ; which had evi- 
dently, too, a considerable effect upon some other waiters at 
the " Shelburne," with whom I was not as yet so familiar. The 
mouldy camelopard at the Trinity College "Musayum" was 
scarcely taller than the bay-horse in the cab ; the groom behind 
was of a corresponding smallncss. The cab was of a lovely 
olive-green, picked out with white, high on high springs and 

* This refers to an illustrated edition of the work. 



22 • THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

enormous wheels, which, big as they were, scarcel}^ seemed to 
touch the earth. The little tiger swung gracefully up and 
down, holding on by the hood, which was of the material of 
which the most precious and polished boots are made. As for 
the lining — but here we come too near the sanctity of private 
life ; suffice that there was a kind friend inside, who (though b}" 
no means of the fairy sort) was as welcome as any fairy in the 

finest chariot. W had seen me landing from the packet 

that morning, and was the very man who in London, a month 
previous, had recommended me to the " Shelburne." These 
facts are not of much consequence to the public, to be sure, 
except that an explanation was necessary of the miraculous ap- 
pearance of the cab and horse. 

Our course, as may be imagined, was towards the seaside -, 
for whither else should an Irishman at this season go ? Not far 
from Kingstown is a house devoted to the purpose of festivit}^ : 
it is called Salt Hill, stands upon a rising ground, commanding 
a fine view of the ba}' and the railroad, and is kept by persons 
bearing the celebrated name of Lovegrove. It is in fact a sea- 
Greenwich, and though there are no marine whitebait, other 
fishes are to be had in plenty, and especially the famous Bray 
trout, which does not ill deserve its reputation. 

Here we met three young men, who may be called hy the 
names of their several counties — Mr. Galway, Mr. Roscom- 
mon, and Mr. Clare ; and it seemed that I was to complain of 
solitude no longer : for one straightway invited me to his county, 
where was the finest salmon-fishing in the world ; another said 
hu' v,ould drive me through the county Kerry in his four-in-hand 
drag ; and the third had some propositions of sport equally 
hospitable. As for going down to some races, on the Curragh 
of Kildare I think, which were to be held on the next and the 
three following days, there seemed to be no question about that. 
That a man should miss a race within forty miles, seemed to be 
a point never contemplated by these jovial sporting fellows. 

Strolling about in the neighborhood before dinner, we went 
down to the sea-shore, and to some caves which had latelj^been 
discovered there : and two Irish ladies, who were standing at 
the entrance of one of them, permitted me to take the following 
portraits, which were pronounced to be pretty accurate. 

They said they had not acquiesced in the general Temper- 
ance movement that had taken place throughout the country ; 
and, indeed, if the truth must be known, it was only under 
promise of a glass of whiskey apiece that their modest}^ could 
be so far overcome as to permit them to sit for their portraits. 




Two Irish Ladies. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 23 

By the time they were done, a crowd of both sexes had gathered 
round, and expressed themselves quite ready to sit upon the 
same terms. But though there was great variety in their coun- 
tenances, there was not much beauty ; and besides, dinner was 
by this time read}^, which has at certain periods a charm even 
greater than art. 

The bay, which had been veiled in mist and gray in the 
morning, was now shining under the most beautiful clear sky, 
which present!}' became rich w^th a thousand gorgeous hues of 
sunset. The view was as smiling and delightful a one as can 
be conceived, — just such a one as should be seen a travers a 
good dinner ; with no fatiguing sublimit}' or awful beauty in it, 
but brisk, brilliant, sunny, enlivening. In fact, in placing his 
banqueting-house here, Mr. Lovegrove had, as usual, a brilliant 
idea. You must not have too much view, or a severe one, to 
give a relish to a good dinner ; nor too much music, nor too 
quick, nor too slow, nor too loud. Any reader who has dined 
at a tahle-dliote in Germany will know the annoyance of this : a 
set of musicians immediately at your back' will sometimes play 
you a melancholy polonaise ; and a man with a good ear must 
perforce eat in time, and your soup is quite cold before it is 
swallowed. Then, all of a sudden, crash goes a brisk gallop ! 
and you are obliged to gulp your victuals at the rate of ten 
miles an hour. And in respect of conversation during a good 
dinner, the same rules of propriety should be consulted. Deep 
and sublime talk is as improper as sublime prospects. Dante 
and champagne (I was going to say Milton and oysters, but 
that is a pun) are quite unfit themes of dinner-talk. Let it 
be light, brisk, not oppressive to the brain. Our conversation 
was, I recollect, just the thing. We talked about the last 
Derby the whole time, and the state of the odds for the St. 
Leger ; nor was the Ascot Cup forgotten ; and a bet or two was 
gayly booked. 

Meanwhile the sky, which had been blue and. then red, as- 
sumed, towards the horizon, as the red was sinking under it, 
a gentle, delicate cast of green. Howth Hill became of a 
darker purple, and the sails of the boats rather dim. The sea 
grew deeper and deeper in color. The lamps at the railroad 
dotted the line with fire ; and the light-houses of the bay began 
to flame. The trains to and from the city rushed flashing and 
hissing by. In a word, everybody said it was time to light a 
cigar ; which was done, the conversation about the Derb}^ still 
continuing. 

" Put out that candle," said Roscommon to Clare. This the 



24 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

latter instantly did by flinging the taper out of the window upon 
the lawn, which is a thoroughfare ; and where a great laugh 
arose among half a score of beggar-bo3^s, who had been under 
the window for some time past, repeatedl}^ requesting the com- 
pany to throw out sixpence between them. 

Two other sporting j'oung fellows had now joined the corn- 
pan}^ ; and as by this time claret began to have rather a mawk- 
ish taste, whiskej'-and-water was ordered, which was drunk 
upon the perron before the house, whither the whole party ad- 
journed, and where for many hours we delightfully tossed for 
sixpences — a noble and fascinating sport. Nor would these 
remarkable events have been narrated, had I not received ex- 
press permission from the gentlemen of the party to record all 
that was said and done. Who knows but, a thousand years 
hence, some antiquary or historian may find a moral in this 
description of the amusement of the British youth at the present 
enlightened time? 

HOT LOBSTER. 

P.S. — You take a lobster, about three feet long if possible, 
remove the shell, cut or break the flesh of the fish in pieces not 
too small. Some one else meanwhile makes a mixture of mus- 
tard, vinegar, catsup, and lots of ca^'enne pepper. You pro- 
duce a machine called a despatcJier^ which has a spirit-lamp 
under it that is usually illuminated with whiskey. The lobster, 
the sauce, and near half a pound of butter are placed in the de- 
spatcher, which is immediately closed. When boiling, the mix- 
ture is stirred up, the lobster being sure to heave about in the 
pan in a convulsive manner, while it emits a remarkably rich 
and agreeable odor through the apartment. A glass and a 
half of sherry is now thrown into the pan, and the contents 
served out hot, and eaten by the company. Porter is com- 
monly drunk, and whiskey-punch afterwards, and the4ish is fit 
for an emperor. 

N.B. — You are recommended not to hurry yourself in get- 
ting up the next morning, and may take soda-water with ad- 
vantage. — Prohatum est. 



THE lRi6i:i SKETCH BOOK. 25 



CHAPTER II. 

▲ COUNTRY-HOUSE IN KILDARE — SKETCHES OF AN IRISH FAMILY 
AND FARM. 

It had been settled among my friends, I don't know for 
what particular reason, that the Agricultural Show at Cork was 
an exhibition I was speciall}^ bound to see. Whe'ir, therefore, 
a gentleman to whom I had brought a letter of introduction 
kindly offered me a seat in his carriage, which was to travel b}^ 
short days' journeys to that cit}^, I took an abrupt farewell of 
Pat the waiter, and some other friends in Dublin : proposing to 
renew our acquaintance, liowever, upon some future da3\ 

We started then one fine afternoon on the road from Dublin 
to Naas, which is the main southern road from the capital to 
Munster, and met, in the course of the ride of a score of miles, 
a dozen of coaches very heavity loaded, and bringing passen- 
gers to the city. The exit from Dubhn this way is not much 
more elegant than the outlet by way of Kingstown : for though 
the great branches of the citj- appear flourishing enough as yet, 
the small outer ones are in a sad state of decay. Houses drop 
oflf here and there, and dwindle wofullj' in size ; we are got into 
the back-premises of the seemingly prosperous place, and it 
looks miserable, careless, and deserted. We passed through a 
street which was thriving once, but has fallen since into a sort 
of decay, to judge outwardly, — St. Thomas Street. Emmett 
was hanged in the midst of it. And on pursuing the line of 
street, and crossing the Great Canal, you come presently to a 
fine tall square building in the outskirts of the town, which is 
no more nor less than Kilmainham Gaol, or Castle. Poor 
Emmett is the Irish darling still — his history is on ever}^ book- 
stair in the cit}', and 3'onder trim-looking brick gaol a spot 
where Irishmen ma}' go and pra}'. Many a martyr of theirs 
has appeared and died in front of it, — found guilty of ' ' wear- 
ing of the green." 

There must be a fine view from the gaol windows, for we 
presently come to a great stretch of brilUant green country, 
leaving the Dublin hills lying to the left, picturesque in their 
outline, and of wonderful color. It seems to me to be quite a 
diflferent color to that in England — different-shaped clouds — 
different shadows and hghts. The country is well tilled, well 



26 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

peopled ; the hay-harvest on the ground, and the people taking 
advantage of the sunshine to gather it in ; but in spite of everj-- 
thing, — green meadows, white villages and sunshine, — the 
place has a sort of sadness in the look of it. 

The first town we passed, as appears by reference to the Guide- 
book, is the little town of Rathcoole ; but in the space of three 
days Rathcoole has disappeared from my memorj', with the 
exception of a little low building which the village contains, and 
where are the quarters of the Irish constabular3\ Nothing can 
be finer than the trim, orderly, and soldier-like appearance of this 
splendid corps of men. 

One has glimpses all along the road of numerous gentlemen's 
places, looking extensive and prosperous, of a few mills bj^ 
streams here and there ; but though the streams run still, the 
mill-wheels are idle for the chief part ; and the road passes 
more than one long low village, looking bare and poor, but 
neat and whitewashed : it seems as if the inhabitants were de- 
termined to put a decent look upon their povert}^ One or two 
villages there were evidently appertaining to gentlemen's seats ; 
these are smart enough, especially that of Johnstown, near 
Lord Mayo's fine domain, where the houses are of the Gothic 
sort, with pretty porches, creepers, and railings. Noble purple 
hills to the left and right keep up, as it were, an accompaniment 
to the road. 

As for the town of Naas, the first after Dublin that I have 
seen, what can be said of it but that it looks poor, mean, and 
3^et somehow cheerful? There was a little bustle in the small 
shops, a few cars were jingling along the broadest street of the 
town — some sort of dandies and military individuals were 
lolling about right and left ; and I saw a fine court-house, where 
the assizes of Kildare county are held. 

But by far the finest, and I think the most extensive edifice 
in Naas, was a haystack in the inn-yard, the proprietor of which 
did not fail to make me remark its size and splendor. It was 
of such dimensions as to strike a cocknc}^ with respect and 
pleasure ; and here standing just as the new crops were coming 
in, told a tale of opulent thrift and good husbandry. Are there 
many more such haystacks, I wonder, in Ireland? The crops 
along the road seemed healthy, though rather light : wheat and 
oats plenty, and especiall}^ flourishing ; ha}^ and clover not so 
good ; and turnips (let the important remark be taken at its 
full value) almost entirely wanting. 

The little town as they call it of Kilcullen tumbles down a 
hill and struggles up another ; the two being here picturesquely 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 27 

divided by the Liffe}', over which goes an antique bridge. It 
boasts, moreover, of a portion of an abbey wall, and a piece of 
round tower, both on the hill summit, and to be seen (says the 
Guide-book) for many miles round. Here we saw the first 
public evidences of the distress of the countr3^ There was no 
trade in the little phxce, and but few people to be seen, except 
a crowd round a meal-shop, where meal is distributed once a 
week by the neighboring gentrj'. There must have been some 
hundreds of persons waiting about the doors ; women for the 
most part : some of their children were to be found loitering 
about the bridge much farther up the street : but it was curious 
to note, amongst these undeniably starving people, how healthy 
their looks were. Going a little farther we saw women pulling 
weeds and nettles in the hedges, on which dismal sustenance 
the poor creatures live, having no bread, no potatoes, no work. 
Well ! these women did not look thinner or more unhealthy 
than many a well-fed person. A company of English lawyers, 
now, look more cadaverous than these starving creatures. 

Stretching away from Kilcullen bridge, for a couple of miles 
or more, near the fine house and plantations of the Latouche 
familj', is to be seen a much prettier sight, I think, than the 
finest park and mansion in the world. This is a tract of ex- 
cessively green land, dotted over with brilliant white cottages, 
each with its couple of trim acres of garden, where 3'ou see thick 
potato-ridges covered with blossom, great blue plots of com- 
fortable cabbages and such pleasant plants of the poor man's 
garden. Two or three years since, the land was a marshy 
common, which had never since the daj^s of the Dehig*e fed any 
being bigger than a snipe, and into which the poor people 
descended, draining and cultivating and rescuing the marsh 
from the water, and raising their cabins and setting up their 
little inclosures of two or three acres upon the land which they 
had thus created. " Many of 'em has passed months in jail 
for that," said my informant (a groom on the back seat of ray 
host's phaeton) : for it appears that certain gentlemen in the 
neighborhood looked upon the titles of these new colonists with 
some jealousy, and would have been glad to depose them ; but 
there were some better philosophers among the surrounding 
gentry, who advised that instead of discouraging the settlers it 
would be best to help them ; and the consequence has been, 
that there are now two hundred flourishing little homesteads 
upon this rescued land, and as many families in comfort and 
plenty. 

Just at the confines of this pretty rustic republic, -our plea»- 



28 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

ant afternoon's drive ended ; and I must begin this tour with 
a monstrous breach of confidence, by first describing what I 
saw. 

Well, then, we drove through a neat lodge-gate, with no 
stone lions or supporters, but riding well on its hinges, and 
looking fresh and white ; and passed b}^ a lodge, not Gothic, 
but decorated with flowers and evergreens, with clean windows, 
and a sound slate roof ; and then went over a trim road, through 
a few acres of grass, adorned with plenty of young firs and other 
healthy trees, under which were feeding a dozen of fine cows or 
more. The road led up to a house, or rather a congregation 
of rooms, built seemingl}" to suit the owner's convenience, and 
increasing with his increasing wealth, or whim, or familv. 
This latter is as plentiful as everytliing else about the place ; 
and as the arrows increased, the good-natured, lucky father 
has been forced to multipl3' the quivers. 

First came out a 3'oung gentleman, the heir of the house, 
who, after greeting his papa, began examining the horses with 
much interest ; whilst three or four servants, quite neat and 
well dressed, and, wonderful to say, without any talking, began 
to occupy themselves with the carriage, the passengers, and the 
trunks. Meanwhile, the owner of the house had gone into 
the hall, which is snugly furnished as a morning-room, and 
where one, two, three young ladies came in to greet him. The 
3^oung ladies having concluded their embraces performed (as I 
am bound to say from experience, both in London and Paris) 
some very appropriate and well-finished curtsies to the strangers 
arriving. And these three young persons were presentl^^ suc- 
ceeded b}^ some still j^ounger, who came without an}' curtsies 
at all ; but, bounding and jumping, and shouting out '• Papa " 
at the top of their voices, the}^ fell forthwith upon that worth}' 
gentleman's person, taking possession this of his knees, that 
of his arms, that of his whiskers, as fancy or taste might 
dictate. 

" Are there any more of 30U? " sa3^s he, with perfect good- 
humor ; and, iii fact, it appeared that there were some more in 
the nurser3^, as we subsequently had occasion to see. 

Well, this large happy family are lodged in a house than 
which a prettier or more comfortable is not to be seen even in 
England ; of the furniture of which it may be in confidence 
said, that each article is onl3^ made to answer one purpose : — 
thus, that chairs are never called upon to exercise the versa- 
tility of their genius b}- propping up windows ; that chests of 
drawers a\^e not obliged to move their unwieldy persons in order 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 29 

to act as locks to doors ; that the windows are not variegated 
b}' paper, or adorned with wafers, as in other places which I 
have seen : in fact, that the place is just as comfortable as a 
place can be. 

And if these comforts and reminiscences of three daj's' date 
are enlarged upon at some length, the reason is simpl}- this : — 
this is written at what is supposed to be the best inn at one of 
the best towns of Ireland, A¥aterford. Dinner is just over ; it 
is assize- week, and the tahle-dliote was surrounded for the chief 
part by EngUsh attorneys — the cj'ouncillors (as the bar are 
pertinacioush' called) dining up stairs in private. Well, on 
going to the public room and being about to la}- dovv'n my hat 
on the sideboard, I was obliged to pause — out of regard to a 
fine thick coat of dust which had been kindl}- left to gather for 
some da3'S pa,st I slioukl think, and which it seemed a shame to 
displace. Yonder is a chair basking quietl}' in the sunshine ; 
some round object has evidently reposed upon it (a hat or plate 
probably), for you see a clear circle of black horsehair in the 
middle of the chair, and dust all round it. Not one of those 
dirt}' napkins that the four waiters cany, woukl wdpe awa}^ the 
grime from the chair, and take to itself a little dust more ! 
The people in the room are shouting out for the waiters, who 
cr}', " Yes, sir," peevishly, and don't come ; but stand bawling 
and jangling, and calling each other names, at the sideboard. 
The dinner is plentiful and nasty — raw ducks, raw pease, on 
a crumpled tablecloth, over which a waiter has just spirted a 
pint of obstreperous cider. The windows are open, to give 
free view of a crowd of old beggar-women, and of a fel- 
low playing a cursed Irish pipe. Presentlv this delectable 
apartment fills with choking peat-smoke ; and on asking what 
is the cause of this agreeable addition to the pleasures of 
the place, you are told that they are lighting a fire in a back- 
room. 

Why should lighting a fire in a back-room fill a whole enor- 
mous house with smoke? Wh}- should four waiters stand and 
jaw and gesticulate among themselves, instead of waiting on 
the guests? Why should ducks be raw, and dust lie quiet in 
places where a hundred people pass daily? All these points 
make one think ver}^ regretful!}- of neat, pleasant, comfortable, 

prosperous H town, where the meat was cooked, and the 

rooms were clean, and the servants didn't talk. Nor need it 
be said here, that it is as cheap to have a house clean as dirty, 
and that a raw leg of mutton costs exactly the same sum as one 
cult a point. And by this moral earnestly hoping that all Ire- 



30 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK, 

land may profit, let us go back to H , and the sights to be 

seen there. 

There is no need to particularize the chairs and tables any 
farther, nor to say what sort of conversation and claret we had ; 
nor to set down the dishes served at dinner. If an Irish gen- 
tleman does not give 3'ou a more hearty welcome than an 
Englishman, at least he has a more hearty manner of welcom- 
ing 3'ou ; and while the latter reserves his fun and humor (if he 
possess those qualities) for his particular friends, the former 
is read}' to laugh and talk his best with all the world, and give 
way entirely to his mood. And it would be a good opportunity 
here for a man who is clever at philosophizing to expound 
various theories upon the modes of hospitality practised in 
various parts of Europe. In a couple of hours' talk, an Eng- 
lishman will give you his notions on trade, politics, the crops ; 
the last run with the hounds, or the weather : it requires a long 
sitting, and a bottle of wine at the least, to induce him to laugh 
cordially, or to speak unreservedly ; and if 3'ou joke with him 
before 3'OU know him, he will assuredl}^ set 3'ou clown as a low 
impertinent fellow. In two hours, and over a pipe, a German 
will be quite read3' to let loose the easy floodgates of his senti- 
ment, and confide to you man3' of the secrets of his soft heart. 
In two hours a Frenchman will sa3' a hundred and twenty smart, 
witt3% brilliant, false things, and will care for you as much then 
as he would if 3'Ou saw him every day for twent3^ 3'ears — that 
is, not one single straw ; and in two hours an Irishman will 
have allowed his jovial humor to unbutton, and gambolled and 
frolicked to his heart's content. Which of these, putting Mon- 
sieur out of the question, will stand b3' his friend with the most 
constancy, and maintain his stead3^ wish to serve him? That 
is a question which the Englishman (and I think with a little 
of his ordinar3^ cool assumption) is disposed to decide in his 
own favor ; but it is clear that for a stranger the Irish wa3\s 
are the pleasantest, for here he is at once made happ3' and at 
home ; or at ease rather : for home is a strong word, and im- 
phes much more than any stranger can expect, or even desire 
to claim. 

Nothing could be more delightful to witness than the evi- 
dent affection which the children and parents bore to one 
another, and the cheerfulness and happiness of their famil}^- 
parties. The father of one lad went with a part}' of his friends 
and family on a pleasure-part3% in a handsome coach-and-four. 
The little fellow sat on the coach-box and pla3'ed with the whip 
ver}^ wistfully for some time : the sun was shining, the horses 



THE IRISil SKETCH BOOK. 31 

came out in bright harness, with glistening coats ; one of the 
girls brought a geranium to stick in papa's button-hole, who 
was to drive. But although there was room in the coach, and 
though papa said he should go if he liked, and though the lad 
longed to go — as who wouldn't? — he jumped off the box, 
and said he would not go : mamma would like him to stop at 
home and keep his sister company ; and so down he went like 
a hero. Does this stor}^ appear trivial to any one who reads 
it? If so, he is a pompous fellow, whose opinion is not worth 
the having ; or he has no children of his own ; or he has for- 
gotten the da}^ when he was a child himself; or he has never 
repented of the surl}' selfishness with which he treated brothers 
and sisters, after the habit of 3'oung English gentlemen. 

" That's a list that uncle keeps of his children," said the 
same 3'oung fellow, seeing his uncle reading a paper ; and to 
understand this joke, it must be remembered that the children 
of the gentleman called uncle came into the breakfast-room by 
half-dozens. " That's a riun fellow," said the eldest of these 
latter to me, as his father went out of the room, evidently 
thinking his papa was the greatest wit and wonder in the 
whole world. And a great merit, as it appeared to me, on 
the part of these worthy parents Vvas, that the}^ consented not 
only to make, but to take jokes from their 3'Oung ones : nor 
was the parental authority- in the least weakened b}^ this kind 
famiUar intercourse. 

A word with regard to the ladies so far. Those I have seen 
appear to the full as well educated and refined, and far more 
frank and cordial, than the generahty of the fair creatures on 
the other side of the Channel. I have not heard anything 
about poetry, to be sure, and in only one house haA^e seen an 
album ; but I have heard some capital music, of an excellent 
family sort — that sort which is used, namely, to set 3'oung 
people dancing, which the3' have done merrih' for some nights. 
In respect of drinking, among the gentry teetotahsm does not, 
thank heaven ! as 3'et appear to prevail ; but although the claret 
has been invariably good, there has been no improper use of 
it.* Let all English be recommended to be ver3^ careful of 
whiskey, which experience teaches to be a ver3' deleterious 
drink. Natives sa3' that it is v/holesome, and may be some- 
times seen to use it with impunit3' ; but the whiske3'-fever is 
naturally more ftital to strangers than inhabitants of the coun- 

* The only instances of intoxication that I have heard of as yet, have 
been on the part of two " cyouncillors/' undeniably drunk and noisy yes> 
tcrday after the bar dinner at Waterford. 



32 THE IRISH SKfltCH BOOK. 

trj' ; and whereas an Irishman will sometimes imbibe a half- 
dozen tumblers of the poison, two glasses will be often found 
to cause headaches, heartburns, and fevers to a person newly 
arrived in the country. The said whiske}^ is alwaj- s to be had for 
the asking, but is not produced at the bettermost sort of tables. 
Before setting out on our second day's journey, we had time 

to accompan}^ the well-pleased owner of H town over some 

of his fields and out-premises. Nor can there be a pleasanter 

sight to owner or stranger. Mr. P farm^s four hundred 

acres of land about his house ; and employs on this estate no 
less than a hundred and ten persons. He says there is full 
work for every one of them ; and to see the elaborate state of 
cultivation in which the land was, it is easy to understand how 
such an agricultural regiment were employed. The estate is 
hke a well-ordered garden : we walked into a huge field of po- 
tatoes, and the landlord made us remark that there was not a 
single weed between the furrows ; and the whole formed a vast . 
flower-bed of a score of acres. Every bit of land up to the 
hedge-side was fertilized and full of produce : the space left for 
the plough having afterwards been gone over, and yielding its 
fullest proportion of " fruit." In a turnip-field were a score 
or more of women and children, who were marching through 
the ridges, removing the young plants where two or three had 
grown together, and leaving onh' the most healthy. Every 
individual root in the field was thus the object of culture ; and 
the owner said that this extreme cultivation answered his pur- 
pose, and that the emploj^ment of all these hands, (the women 
and children earn (Jd. and M. a da}- all the 3^ear round,) which 
gained him some reputation as a philanthropist, brought him 
profit as a farmer too ; for his crops were the best that land 
could produce. He has further the advantage of a large stock 
for manure, and does everything for the land which art can do. 
Here we saw several experiments in manuring; an acre 
of turnips prepared with bone-dust; another with " Murra3''s 
Composition," whereof I do not pretend to know the ingre- 
dients ; another with a new manure called guano. As far as 
turnips and a first 3^ear's crop went, the guano carried the 
day. The plants on the guano acre looked to be three weeks 
in advance of their neighbors, and were extremel}' plentiful 
and health3^ I went to see this field two months after the 
above passage was written : the guano acre still kept the lead ; 
the bone-dust ran guano ver3' hard ; and composition was 
clearl3' distanced. 

Behind the house is a fine village of corn and ha3Ticks, and 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 33 

a street of out-buildings, where all the work of the farm is 
prepared. Here were numerous people coming with pails for 
buttermilk, which the good-natured landlord made over to 
them. A score of men or more were busied about the place ; 
some at a grindstone, others at a forge — other fellows busied 
in the cart-houses and stables, all of which were as neatl}' kept 
as in the best farm in England. A little further on was a 
flower-garden, a kitchen-garden, a hot-house just building, a 
kennel of fine point^'s and setters ; — indeed a noble feature of 
country neatness, thrift, and plent}^ 

We went into the cottages and gardens of several of Mr. 

P 's laborers, which were all so neat that I could not help 

fanc3'ing the}' were pet cottages, erected under the landlord's 
own superintendence, and ornamented to his order. But he 
declared that it was not so ; that the only benefit his laborers 
got from him was constant work, and a house rent-free ; and 
that the neatness of the gardens and dwellings was of their own 
doing. By making them a present of the house, he said, he 
made them a present of the pig and live stock, with which 
almost every Irish cotter paj^s his rent, so that each workman 
could have a bit of meat for his support ; — would that all 
laborers in the empire had as much ! With regard to the neat- 
ness of the houses, the best way to ensure this, he said, was 
for the master constantly' to visit them — to awaken as much 
emulation as he could amongst the cottagers, so that each 
should make his place as good as his neighbor's — and to take 
them good-humoredl}' to task if they failed in the requisite 
care. 

And so this pleasant day's visit ended. A more practical 
person would have seen, no doubt, and understood much more 
than a mere citizen could, whose pursuits have been very dif- 
ferent from those noble and useful ones here spoken "oi But 
a man has no call to be a judge of turnips or live stock, in 
order to admire such an estabhshment as this, and heartily to 
appreciate the excellence of it. There are some happ}' organi- 
zations in the world which possess the great virtue of prosperity. 
It implies cheerfulness, simplicity, shrewdness, perseverance, 
honesty, good health. See how, before the good-humored 
resolution of such characters, ill-luck gives way, and fortune 
assumes their own smiling complexion ! Such men grow rich 
without driving a single hard bargain ; their condition being to 
make others prosper along with themselves. Thus, his very 
charit}' , another informant tells me, is one of the causes of my 
host's good fortune. He might have three pounds a year from 

3 



M THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

each of forty cottages, but instead prefers a hundred healthy 
workmen ; or he might have a fourth of the number of work- 
men, and a farm 3'ielding a produce proportionately less ; but 
instead of saving the money of their wages, prefers a farm the 
produce of which, as I have heard from a gentleman whom I 
take to be good authority', is unequalled elsewhere. 

Besides the cottages, we visited a pretty school where 
children of an exceeding smallness were at their work, — the 
children of the Catholic peasantry. The. few Protestants of 
the district do not attend the national-school, nor learn their 
alphabet or their multiplication-table in compan}- with their 
little Roman Catholic brethren. The clergyman who lives 

hard b}^ the gate of H town, in his communication with 

his parishioners cannot fail to see how much misery is relieved 
and how much good is done by his neighbor ; but though the 
two gentlemen are on good terms, the clergyman will not break 
bread with his Catholic fellow-Christian. There can be no 
harm, I hope, in mentioning this fact, as it is rather a public 
than a private matter ; and, unfortunately, it is only a stranger 
that is surprised by such a circumstance, which is quite famil- 
iar to residents of the country. There are Catholic inns and 
Protestant inns in the towns ; Catholic coaches and Protestant 
coaches on the roads ; nay, in the North, I have since heard 
of a High Church coach and a Low Church coach adopted by 
travelling Christians of either party. 



« CHAPTER in. 

FROM CARLO W TO WATERFORD. 

The next morning being fixed for the commencement of our 
journe}^ towards Waterford, a carriage made its appearance in 
due time before the hall-door : an amateur stage-coach, with 
four fine horses, that were to cany us to Cork. The crew of 
the " drag," for the present, consisted of two 3'Oung ladies, and 
two who will not be old, please heaven ! for these thirt}" years ; 
three gentlemen whose collected weights might amount to fift}^- 
four stone ; and one of smaller proportions, being as yet only 
twelve 3^ears old : to these were added a couple of grooms and a 
lady's-maid. Subsequently we took in a dozen or so more pas- 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 35 

sengers, who did not seem in the slightest degree to inconven- 
ience the coacli or tlie horses ; and thus was formed a tolerably 
numerous and merry part}'. The governor toolv the reins, with 
his geranium in liis button-hole, and the place on the box was 
quarrelled for without ceasing, and tal^en b}' turns. 

Our da3''s journej' lay through a country more picturesque, 
though b}' no means so prosperous and well cultivated as the 
district through which we had passed on our drive from Dublin. 
This trip carried us through the County of Carlow and the town 
of that name : a wretched place enough, with a fine court-house, 
and a couple of fine churches : the Protestant church a noble 
structure, and the Catholic cathedral said to be built after some 
continental model. The Catholics point to the structure with 
considerable pride : it was the first, I believe, of the many 
handsome cathedrals for their worship which have been built of 
late years in this country by the noble contributions of the poor 
man's penny, and b}^ the untiring energies and sacrifices of the 
clergy. Bishop Do3'le, the founder of the church, has the place 
of honor within it ; nor, perhaps, did any Christian pastor ever 
merit the affection of his flock more than tliat great and high- 
minded man. He was the best champion the Catholic Church 
and cause ever had in Ireland : in learning, and admirable 
kindness and virtue, the best example to the clergy of his 
religion : and if the country is now filled with schools, where 
the humblest peasant in it can have the benefit of a liberal and 
wholesome education, it owes this great boon mainly to his 
noble exertions, and to the spirit which the}^ awakened. 

As for the architecture of the cathedral, I do not fancy a 
professional man would find much to praise in it ; it seems to 
me overloaded with ornaments, nor were its innumerable spires 
and pinnacles the more pleasing to the e3'e because some of them 
were out of the perpendicular. The interior is quite plain, not 
to sa}^ bare and unfinished. Many of the chapels in the country 
that I have since seen are in a similar condition ; for when tlie 
walls are once raised, the enthusiasm of the subscribers to tlie 
building seems somewhat characteristically to grow cool, and 
3'ou enter at a porch that would suit a palace, with an interior 
scarcely more decorated than a barn. A wide large floor, some 
confession-boxes against the blank walls here and there, with 
some humble pictures at the " stations," and the statue, under 
a mean canopy of red woollen stuff, were the chief furniture of 
the cathedral. 

The severe homely features of the good bishop were not ver}^ 
favorable subjects for Mr. Hogan's chisel ; but a figure of pros- 



36 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

trate, weeping Ireland, kneeling bj^ the prelate's side, and for 
whom he is imploring protection, has much beauty. In the 
chapels of Dublin and Cork some of this artist's work may be 
seen, and his countr3^men are exceedingl}^ proud of him. 

Connected with the Catholic cathedral is a large tumble- 
down-looking divinity college : there are upwards of a hundred 
students here, and the college is licensed to give degrees in arts 
as well as divinit}' ; at least so the officer of the church said, 
as he showed us the place through the bars of the sacristy- 
windows, in which apartment may be seen sundry crosses, a 
pastoral letter of Dr. Doyle, and a number of ecclesiastical 
vestments formed of laces, poplins, and velvets handsomely 
laced with gold. There is a convent b}^ the side of the cathe- 
dral, and, of course, a parcel of beggars all about, and indeed 
all over the town, profuse in their prayers and invocations of 
the Lord, and whining flatteries of the persons whom they 
address. One wretched old tottering hag began whining the 
Lord's Praj^er as a proof of her sincerity, and blundered in 
the very midst of it, and left us thoroughly disgusted after 
the ver}' first sentence. 

It was market-day in the town, which is tolerably full of 
poor-looking shops, the streets being thronged with donkey- 
carts, and people eager to barter their small wares. Here 
and there were picture-stalls, with huge hideous-colored en- 
gravings of the Saints : and indeed the objects of barter upon 
the banks of the clear bright river Barrow seemed scarcely to 
be of more value than the articles which change hands, as one 
reads of, in a town of African huts and traders on the banks of 
the Quorra. Perhaps the ver^' bustle and cheerfulness of the 
people served onlj^, to a Londoner's' e3'e, to make it look the 
more miserable. It seems as if they had no i^ight to be eager 
about such a parcel of wretched rags and trifles as were exposed 
to sale. 

There are some old towers of a castle here, looking finel}', 
from the river ; and near the town is a grand modern residence 
belonging to Colonel Bruen, with an oak-park on one side of 
the road, and a deer-park on the other. These retainers of the 
Colonel's lay in their rushy green inclosures, in great numbers, 
and seemingly in flourishing condition. 

The road from Carlow to Leighlin Bridge is exceedingly 
beautiful : noble pure hills rising on either side, and the broad 
silver Barrow flowing through rich meadows of that astonish- 
ing verdure which is onlj' to be seen in this countrj^ Here and 
there was a country-house, or a tall mill b}^ a stream-side : but 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 37 

the latter buildings were for the most part empty, the gaimt 
windows gaping without glass, and their great wheels idle. 
Leighlin Bridge, l^'ing up and down a hill by the river contains 
a considerable number of pompous-looking warehouses, that 
looked for the most part to be doing no more business than 
the mills on the Carlow road, but stood by the roadside staring 
at the coach as it were, and basking in the sun, swaggering, 
idle, insolvent, and out-at-elbows. There are one or two very 
prett}', modest, comfortable-looking country places about Leigh- 
lin Bridge, and on the road thence to a miserable village called 
the Royal Oak, a beggarl}-- sort of bustling place. 

Here stands a dilapidated hotel and posting-house : and 
indeed on ever}' road, as 3'et, I have been astonished at the 
great movement and stir ; — the old coaches being invariably 
crammed, cars jingling about equall}' full, and no want of gen- 
tlemen's carriages to exercise the horses of the " Royal Oak" 
and similar establishments. In the time of the rebellion, the 
landlord of this " Ro3'alOak," a great character in those parts, 
was a fierce United Irishman. One day it happened that Sir 
John Anderson came to the inn, and was eager for horses on. 
The landlord, who knew Sir John to be a Tor}-, vowed and 
swore he had no horses ; that the judges had the last going to 
Kilkennj^ ; that the j^eomanr}^ had carried oft' the best of them ; 
that he could not give a horse for love or money. " Poor 
Lord Edward ! " said Sir John, sinking down in a chair, and 
clasping his hands, " m}- poor dear misguided friend, and must 
you die for the loss of a few hours and the want of a pair of 
horses ? " 

" Lord WhatV says the landlord. 

" Lord Edward Fitzgerald," replied Sir John. '' The Gov- 
ernment has seized his papers, and got scent of his hiding- 
place. If I can't get to him before two hours, Sirr will have 
him." 

"My dear Sir John," cried the landlord, "it's not two 
horses but it's eight I'll give 3'ou, and may the judges go hang 
for me ! Here, Larry ! Tim ! First and second pair for Sir 
John Anderson ; and long life to 3'ou, Sir John, and the Lord 
reward 3'ou for your good deed this day ! " 

Sir John, my informant told me, had invented this predica- 
ment of Lord Edward's in order to get the horses ; and by wa}^ 
of corroborating the whole story, pointed out an old chaise 
which stood at the inn-door with its window broken, a great 
crevice in the panel, some little wretches crawling underneath 
the wheels, and two huge blackguards lolling against the pole. 



38 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

"And that," sa3's he, "is no doubt the very post-chaise Sir 
John Anderson had." It certainly looked ancient enough. 

Of course, as we stopped for a moment in the place, troops 
of slatternly, ruflianly-looking fellows assembled round the car- 
riage, dirty heads peeped out of all the dirty windows, beggars 
came forward with a joke and a prayer, and troops of children 
raised their shouts and halloos. I confess, with regard to the 
beggars, that I have never 3'et had the slightest sentiment oi 
compassion for the ver}' oldest or dirtiest of them, or been 
inclined to give them a penny : they come crawling round 3"0u 
with lying prayers and. loathsome compliments, that make the 
stomach turn ; the}- do not even disguise that thej' are lies ; 
for, refuse them and the wretches turn off with a laugh and a 
joke, a miserable grinning cynicism that creates distrust and 
indifference, and must be, one would think, the ver^' best way 
to close the purse, not to open it, for objects so unworth}'. 

How do all these people live ? one can't help w^ondering ; — 
these multifarious vagabonds, without work or workliouse, or 
means of subsistence? The Irish Poor Law^ Report sa3-s that 
there are twelve hundred thousand people in Ireland — a sixth 
of the population — w^ho have no means of livelihood but char- 
it3', and whom the State, or individual members of it, must 
maintain. How can the State support such an enormous bur- 
den ; or the twelve hundred thousand be supported ? What a 
strange history it would be, could one but get it true, — that of 
the manner in which a score of these beggars have maintained 
themselves^ for a fortnight past ! 

Soon after quitting the " Royal Oak," our road branches off 
to the hospitable house where our party, consisting of a dozen 
persons, was to be housed and fed for the night. Fancy the 
look which an English gentleman of moderate means would 
assume, at being called on to receive such a company ! A 
pretty road of a couple of miles, thickly grown with ash and 
oak trees, under which the hats of coach-passengers suffered 

some danger, leads to the house of D . A 3'oung son of 

the house, on a white pon3^, was on the look-out, and great 
cheering and shouting took place among the young people as 
we came in sight. 

Trotting away b3' the carriage-side he brought us through 
a gate with a prett3^ avenue of trees leading to the pleasure- 
grounds of the house — a handsome building commanding no- 
ble views of river, mountains, and plantations. Our entertainer 
onl3' rents the place ; so I ma3' say, without any imputation 
against him, that the house was by no means so handsome 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 39 

within as without, — not that the want of finish in the interior 
made our party the less merry, or the host's entertainment less 
hearty and cordial. 

The gentleman who built and owns the house, like many 
other proprietors in Ireland, found his mansion too expensive 
for his means, and has relinquished it. I asked what his income 
might be, and no wonder that he was compelled to resign his 
house ; which a man with four times the income in England 
would scarcely- venture to inhabit. There were numerous sit- 
ting-rooms below ; a large suite of rooms above, in which our 
large party, with their servants, disappeared without any seem- 
ing inconvenience, and which already accommodated a family 
of at least a dozen persons, and a numerous train of domestics. 
There was a great court-yard surrounded b}' capital offices, with 
stabling and coach-houses sufficient for a half-dozen of country 
gentlemen. An English squire of ten thousand a year might 
live in such a place — the original owner, I am told, had not 
many more hundreds. 

Our host has wisely turned the chief part of the pleasure- 
ground round the house into a farm ; nor did the land look a 
bit the worse, as I thought, for having rich crops of potatoes 
growing in place of grass, and fine plots of waving wheat and 
barle3^ The care, skill, and neatness everywhere exhibited, 
and the immense luxuriance of the crops, could not fail to strike 
even a cockne}' : and one of our party, a very well-known, 
practical farmer, told me that there was at least five hundred 
pounds' worth of produce upon the little estate of some sixty 
acres, of which only five-and-twenty were under the plough. 

As at H town, on the previous da}-, several men and 

women appeared sauntering in the grounds, and as the master 
came up, asked for work, or sixpence, or told a story of want. 
There are lodge-gates at both ends of the demesne ; but it ap- 
pears the good-natured practice of the country' admits a beggar 
as well as any other visitor. To a couple our landlord gave 
mone}', to another a little job of work ; another he sent roughly 
out of the premises : and I could judge thus what a continual 
tax upon the Irish gentleman these travelling paupers must be, 
of whom his ground is never free. 

There, loitering aT)out the stables and out-houses, were sev- 
eral people who seemed to have acquired a sort of right to be 
there : women and children who had a claim upon the butter- 
milk ; men who did an odd job now and then ; loose hangers-on 
of the famil}' : and in the lodging-houses and inns I have en- 
tered, the same sort of ragged vassals are to be found ; in a 



40 THE IRISH' SKETCH BOOK. 

house however poor, you are sure to see some poorer dependant 
who is a stranger, taking a meal of potatoes in the Icitchen ; a 
Tim or Mike loitering hard b}', read}' to run on a message, or 
carr}' a bag. This is written, for instance, at a lodging over a 
shop at Cork. There sits in the shop a poor old fellow quite 
past work, but who totters up and down stairs to the lodgers, 
and does what little he can for his easily-won bread. There is 
another fellow outside who is sure to make his bow to anybod}^ 
issuing from the lodging, and ask if his honor wants an errand 
done ? Neither class of such dependants exists with us. What 
housekeeper in London is there will feed an old man of sev- 
enty that's good for nothing, or encourage such a disreputable 
hanger-on as yonder shuffling, smiling cad? 

Nor did Mr. M 's " irregulars" disappear with the day ; 

for when, after a great deal of merriment, and kind, happy 
dancing and romping of young people, the fineness of the night 
suggested the propriety of smoking a certain cigar (it is never 
more acceptable than at that season), the young squire voted 
that we should adjourn to the stables for the purpose, where 
accordingl}' the cigars were discussed. There were still the inev- 
itable half-dozen hangers-on : one came grinning with a lantern, 
all nature being in universal blackness except his grinning face ; 
another ran obsequiously to the stables to show a favorite mare 
— I think it was a mare — though it may have been a mule, and 
your humble servant not much the wiser. The cloths were 
taken off ; the fellows with the candles crowded about ; and the 
young squire bade me admire the beauty of her fore-leg, which 
I did with the greatest possible gravity. "Did you ever see 
such a fore-leg as that in your life ? " says the young squire, 
and further discoursed upon the horse's points, the amateur 
grooms joining in chorus. 

There was another 3^oung squire of our part}', a pleasant 
gentlemanlike .young fellow, who danced as prettilj^ as any 
Frenchman, and who had ridden over from a neighboring house : 
as I went to bed, the two lads were arguing whether 3'oung 

Squire B should go home or stay at D that night. 

There was a bed for him — there was a bed for ever3'body it 
seemed, and a kind welcome too. How different was all this to 
the ways of a severe English house ! 

Next morning the whole of our merr}^ part}' assembled round 
a long, jovial breakfast- table, stored with all sorts of good 
things ; and the biggest and jovialest man of all, who had just 
come in fresh from a walk in the fields, and vowed that he was _ 
as hungry as a hunter, and was cutting some slices out of an 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 41 

inviting ham on the side-table, siiddenl}' let fall his knife and 
fork with disma3\ " Sure, John, don't 3'ou know it's Friday ? " 
cried a lady from the table ; and back John came with a most 
lugubrious queer look on his jolly face, and fell to work upon 
bread-and-butter, as resigned as possible, amidst no small 
laughter, as may be well imagined. On this I was bound, as a 
Protestant, to eat a large slice of pork, and discharged that 
duty nobl}', and with much self-sacrifice. 

The famous " drag " which had brought us so far, seemed to 
be as hospitable and elastic as the house which we now left, 
for the coach accommodated, inside and out, a considerable 
party from the house ; and we took our road leisurely, in a 
cloudless scorching day, towards Waterford. The first place 
we passed through was the little town of Gowran, near which 
is a grand, well-ordered park, belonging to Lord Clifden, and 
where his mother resides, with whose beautiful face, in Law- 
rence's pictures, every reader must be familiar. The kind Eng- 
lish lady has done the greatest good in the neighborhood, it is 
said, and the little town bears marks of her beneficence, in its 
neatness, prettiness, and order. Close by the church there are 
the ruins of a fine old abbey here, and a still finer one a few 
miles on, at Thomastown, most picturesquely situated amidst 
trees and meadow, on the river Nore. The place within, how- 
ever, is dirty and ruinous — the same wretched suburbs, the 
same squalid congregation of beggarly loungers, that are to be 
seen elsewhere. The monastic ruin is ver}^ fine, and the road 
hence to Thomastown rich with varied cultivation and beautiful 
verdure, pretty gentlemen's mansions shining among the trees 
on either side of the wa}'. There was one place along this rich 
tract that looked very strange and ghastly — a huge old pair of 
gate pillars, flanked by a ruinous lodge, and a wide road wind- 
ing for a mile up a hill. There had been a park once, but all 
the trees were gone ; thistles were growing in the 3'ellow sickl}^ 
land, and rank thin grass on the road. Far away you saw in 
this desolate tract a ruin of a house : man}^ a butt of claret has 
been emptied there, no doubt, and many a merry party come 
out with hound and horn. But what strikes the Englishman 
with wonder is not so much, perhaps, that an owner of the 
place should have been ruined and a spendthrift, as that the 
land should lie there useless ever since. If one is not suc- 
cessful with us another man will be, or* another will tr}^, at 
least. Here lies useless a^ great capital of hundreds of 
acres of land ; barren, where the commonest eflTort might make 
it productive, and looking as if for a quarter of a century 



42 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

past no soul ever looked or cared for it. You might travel 
five hundred miles through England and not see such a spec- 
tacle. 

A short distance from Thomastown is another sibhej ; and 
present!}^, after passing through the village of Knocktopher, 
we came to a posting-place called Ball3'hale, of the moral aspect 
of which the following scrap taken in the place will give a 
notion.* 

A dirt3% old, contented, decrepit idler was lolling in the sun 
at a shop-door, and hundreds of the population of the dirty, 
old, decrepit, contented place were emplo3^ed in the like way. 
A dozen of boys were playing at pitch-and-toss ; other male 
and female beggars were sitting on a wall looking into a 
stream ; scores of ragamuffins, of course, round the carriage ; 
and beggars galore at the door of the little ale-house or hotel. 
A gentleman's carriage changed horses as we were baiting 
here. It was a rich sight to see the cattle, and the wa}^ of 
starting them : "Halloo! Yoop — hoop!" a dozen ragged 
ostlers and amateurs running by the side of the miserable old 
horses, the postilion shrieking, yelling, and belaboring them 
with his whip. Down goes one horse among the new-laid 
stones ; the postilion has him up with a cut of the whip and 
a curse, and takes advantage of the start caused by the stum- 
ble to get the brute into a gallop, and to go down the hill. 
" I know it for a fact," a gentleman of our party sa3'S, " that 
no horses ei'er got out of Ballyhale without an accident of some 
kind." 

" Will your honor like to come and see a big pig?" here 
asked a man of the above gentleman, well known as a great 
farmer and breeder. We all went to see the big pig, not very 
fat as yet, but, upon m3^ word, it is as big as a pony. The 
country round is, it appears, famous for the breeding of such, 
especiall3^ a district called the Welsh mountains, through which 
we had to pass on our road to Waterford. 

This is a curious countr3^ to see, and has curious inhabi- 
tants : for twent3' miles there is no gentleman's house : gentle- 
men dare not live there. Tire place was originally tenanted by 
a clan of Welshes ; hence its name ; and they maintain them- 
selves in their occupancy of the farms in Tipperar3' fashion, by 
simply putting a ball into the bod3' of an3^ man who would 
come to take a farm-over any one of them. Some of the crops 
in the fields of the Welsh countr3^ seemed ver3^ good, and the 
fields well tilled ; but it is common to see, by the side of one 

* This refers to an illustrated edition of the work. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 43 

field that is well cultivated, another that is absolutel}' barren •, 
and the whole tract is extremel}' wretched. Appropriate his- 
tories and reminiscences accompan}^ the traveller : at a chapel 
near Miillinavat is the spot where sixteen policemen were mur- 
dered in the tithe-campaign ; farther on you come to a lime-kiln, 
where the guard of a mail-coach was seized and roasted alive. 
I saw here the first hedge-school I have seen : a crowd of half- 
savage-looking lads and girls looked up from their studies in 
the ditch, their college or lecture-room being in a mud cabin 
hard b}^ 

And likewise, in the midst of this wild tract, a fellow met 
us who was trudging the road with a fish-basket over his 
shoulder, and who stopped the coach, hailing two of the gen- 
tlemen in it b}^ name, both of whom seemed to be much amused 
b}' his humor. He was a handsome rogue, a poacher, or salmon- 
taker, b}^ profession, and presentl\' poured out such a flood of 
oaths, and made such a monstrous displaj- of grinning wit and 
blackguardism, as I have never heard equalled b}' the best 
Bilhngsgate practitioner, and as it would be more than useless 
to attempt to describe. Blessings, jokes, and curses trolled off 
the rascal's lips with a volubility which caused his Irish audience 
to shout with laughter, but which were quite beyond a cockne3^° 
It was a humor so purely national as to be understood by none 
but natives, I should think. I recollect the same feeling of 
perplexity while sitting, the onl}- Englishman, in a company of 
jocular Scotchmen. They bandied about puns, jokes, imita- 
tions, and applauded with shrieks of laughter what, I confess, 
appeared to me the most abominable dulness ; nor was the 
salmon-taker's jocularit}^ an}^ better. I think it rather served 
to frighten than to amuse ; and I am not sure but that I looked 
out for a band of jocular cut-throats of this sort to come up at 
a given guffaw, and pla3'full3^ rob us all round. However, he 
went away quite peaceabl}^, calling down for the part}' the 
benediction of a great number of saints, who must have been 
somewhat ashamed to be addressed b}' such a rascal. 

Presently we caught sight of the valley through which the 
Suir flows, and descended the hill towards it, and went over 
the thundering old wooden bridge to Waterford. 



44 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

CHAPTER IV. 

FROM WATERFORD TO CORK. 

The view of the town from the bridge and the heights above 
it is ver\' imposing ; as is the river both wa3^s. Very large 
vessels sail up almost to the doors of the honses, and the qua3's 
are flanked by tall red warehouses, that look at a little distance 
as if a world of business might be doing within them. But as 
3'ou get into the place, not a soul is there to greet 3'ou, except 
the usual societ3^ of beggars, and a sailor or two, or a green- 
coated policeman sauntering down the broad pavement. We 
drove up to the " Coach Inn," a huge, handsome, dirt3^ build- 
ing, of which the discomforts have been patheticall3'' described 
elsewhere. The landlord is a gentleman and considerable 
horse-proprietor, and though a perfectly well-bred, active, and 
intelhgent man, far too much of a gentleman to pla3^ the host 
well : at least as an Englishman understands that character. 

Opposite the town is a tower of questionable antiquit3^ and 
undeniable ugliness ; ' for though the inscription sa3^s it was 
built in the 3"ear one thousand and something, the same docu- 
ment adds that it was rebuilt in 1819 — -to either of which dates 
the traveller is thus welcomed. The qua3's stretch for a con- 
siderable distance along the river, poor, patched- windowed, 
mould3'-looking shops forming the basement-stor3^ of most of 
the houses. We went into one, a jeweller's, to make a pur- 
chase — it might have been of a gold watch for anything the 
owner knew ; but he was talking with a friend in his back- 
parlor, gave us a look as we entered, allowed us to stand some 
minutes in the empt3' shop, and at length to walk out without 
being served. In another shop a boy was lolling behind a 
counter, but could not sa3'' whether the articles we wanted were 
to be had ; turned out a heap of drawers, and could not find 
them ; and finally went for the master, who could not come. 
True commercial independence, and an easy wa3' enough of 
life. 

In one of the streets leading from the qua3^ is a large, dingy 
Catholic chapel, of some pretensions within ; but, as usual, 
there had been a failure for want of mone3', and the front of the 
chapel was unfinished, presenting the butt-end of a portico, and 
walls on which the stone coatino- was to be laid. But a much 




The Court-House at Waterford. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 45 

liner ornament to the church than any of the questionable gew- 
gaws which adorned the ceiUng was the piety, stern, simple, 
and unaffected, of the people within. Their whole soul seemed 
to be in their prayers, as rich and poor knelt inditferentl3- on 
the flags. There is of course an episcopal cathedral, well and 
neatl}' kept, and a handsome Bishop's palace : near it was a 
convent of nuns, and a little chapel-bell clinking melodioush'. 
I was prepared to fancy something romantic of the place ; but 
as we passed the convent gate, a shoeless slattern of a maid 
opened the door — the most dirty and unpoetical of house- 
maids. 

Assizes were held in the town, and we ascended to the court- 
house through a steep street, a sort of rag-fair, but more villa- 
nous, and miserable than any rag-fair in St. Giles's : the houses 
and stock of the Seven Dials look as if they belonged to capi- 
talists when compared with the scarecrow wretchedness of the 
goods here hung out for sale. Who wanted to buy such things ? 
I wondered. One would have thought that the most part of 
the articles had passed the possibility of barter for money, even 
out of the reach of the half-farthings coined of late. AH the 
street was lined with wretched hucksters and their merchandise 
of gooseberries, green apples, children's dirt}^ cakes, cheap 
crockeries, brushes, and tinware ; among which objects the peo- 
ple were swarming about busih^ 

Before the court is a wide street, where a similar market 
was held, with a vast number of donkey-carts urged hither and 
thither, and great shrieking, chattering, and bustle. It is five 
hundred years ago since a poet who accompanied Richard II. 
in his voyage hither spoke of " Watreforde ou moult vilaine et 
orde y sont la gente.'' They don'trseem to be much changed 
now, but remain faithful to their ancient habits. 

About the court-house swarms of beggars of course were 
collected, varied b}^ personages of a better sort : gray-coated 
farmers, and women with their picturesque blue cloaks, who 
had trudged in from the countr}^ probably. The court-house 
is as beggarly and ruinous as the rest of the neighborhood ; 
smart-looking policemen kept order about it, and looked very 
hard at me as I ventured to take a sketch. 

The figures as I saw them were accuratel}^ disposed as follows : 
the man in the dock, the policeman seated easily above^ him, 
the woman looking down from a galler3^ The man was accused 
of stealing a sack of wool, and, having no counsel, made for 
himself as adroit a defence as any one of the counsellors (the}^ 
are without robes or wigs here, by the wa},) could have made for 



46 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

him. He had been seen examining a certain sack of wool in a 
coffee-shop at Dungarvan, and next da}' was caught sight of in 
Waterford Market, standing under an archway from the rain, 
with the sack by his side. 

" Wasn't there twenty other people under the arch?" said 
he to a witness, a noble-looking beautiful girl — the girl was 
obhged to own there were. '' Did 3'ou see me touch the wool, 
or stand nearer to it than a dozen of the dacent people there ? " 
and the girl confessed she had not. ^' And this it is, my lord," 
sa3's he to the bench, '' the}^ attack me because I am poor and 
ragged, but they never think of charging the crime on a rich 
farmer." 

But alas for the defence ! another witness saw the prisoner 
with his legs round the sack, and being about to charge him 
with the theft, the prisoner fled into the arms of a policeman, 
to whom his first words were, "I know nothing about the 
sack." So, as the sack had been stolen, as he had been seen 
handling it four minutes before it was stolen, and holding it 
for sale the da}^ after, it was concluded that Patrick Malon}^ 
had stolen the sack, and he was accommodated with eighteen 
months accordingly'. 

In another case we had a woman and her child on the table ; 
and others followed, in the judgment of which it was impossi- 
ble not to admire the extreme lenienc}', acuteness, and sensi- 
bility of the judge presiding, Chief Justice Pennefather : — the 
man against whom all the Liberals in Ireland, and every one 
else who has read his charge too, must be angry, for the ferocity 
of his charge against a Belfast newspaper editor. It seems as 
if no parties here will be dispassionate when the}' get to a party 
question, and that natural, kindness has no claim when Whig 
and Tor}' come into collision. 

The witness is here placed on a table instead of a witness- 
box ; nor was there much farther peculiarity to remark, except 
in the dirt of tlie court, the absence of the barristerial wig and 
gown, and the great coolness with which a fellow who seemed 
a sort of clerk, usher, and Irish interpreter to the court, recom- 
mended a prisoner, who was making rather a long defence, to 
be quiet. I asked him why the man might not have his say. 
" Sure," says he, '' he's said all he has to say, and there's no 
use in any more." But there was no use in attempting to con- 
vince* Mr. Usher that the prisoner was best judge on this point : 
in fact the poor devil shut his mouth at the admonition., and 
was found guilty with perfect justice. 

A cousiderable poor-house has been erected at Waterford, 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 47 

but the beggars of the place as yet prefer their liberty, and less 
certain means of gaining support. We asked one who was call- 
ing down all the blessings of all the saints and angels upon us, 
and telling a most piteous tale of poverty, why she did 'not go 
to the poor-house. The woman's look at once changed from a 
sentimental whine to a grin. "Dey owe two hundred pounds 
at dat house," said she, ''and faith, an honest woman can't 
go dere." With which wonderful reason ought not the most 
squeamish to be content ? 



After describing, as accurately as words may, the features 
of a landscape, and stating that such a mountain was to the left, 
and such a river or town to the right, and putting down the 
situations and names of the villages, and the bearings of the 
roads, it has no doubt struck the reader of books of travels that 
the writer has not given him the slightest idea of the country, 
and that he would have been just as wise without perusing the 
letter-press landscape through which he has toiled. It will be 
as well then, under such circumstances, to spare the public any 
lengthened description of the road from Waterford to Dungar- 
van ; which was the road we took, followed by benedictions deliv- 
ered gratis from the beggarhood of the former city. Not very far 
fi-om it you see the dark plantations of the magnificent domain 
of CmTaghmore, and pass through a country, blue, hilly, and 
bare, except where gentlemen's seats appear with their orna- 
ments of wood. Presently, after leaving Waterford, we came 
to a certain town called Kilmacthomas, of which all the infor- 
mation I have to give is, that it is situated upon a hill and river, 
and that you may change horses there. The road was cov- 
ered with carts of seaweed, which the people were bringing for 
manure from the shore some four miles distant; and beyond 
Kilmacthomas we beheld the Cummeragh Mountains, "often 
named in maps the Nennavoulagh," either of which names the 
reader may select at pleasure. 

Thence we came to " Cushcam," at which village be it known 
that the turnpike-man kept the drag a very long time waiting. 
"I think the fellow must be writing a book," said the coachman, 
with a most severe look of drollery at a cockney tourist, who 
tried, under the circumstances, to blush, and not to laugh. I 
wish I could relate or remember half the mad jokes that flew 
about among the jolly Irish crew on the top of the coach, and 
which would have made a journey through the Desert jovial. 



48 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

When the 'pike-man had finished his composition (that of a turn- 
pike-ticket, which he had to fill,) we drove on to Dungarvan ; the 
two parts of which town, separated b}' the river Colligan, have 
been joined by a causeway three hundred yards along, and a 
bridge erected at an enormous outla}^ by the Duke of Devon- 
shire. In former times, before his Grace spent his eighty 
thousand pounds upon the causewa}^, this wide estuar}" was 
called " Dungarvan Prospect," because the ladies of the coun- 
try, walking over the river at low water, took off their shoes 
and stockings (such as had them) , and tucking up their clothes, 
exhibited — what I have never seen, and cannot therefore be 
expected to describe. A large and handsome Catholic chapel, 
a square with some pretensions to regularity of building, a very 
neat and comfortable inn, and beggars and idlers still more 
numerous than at Waterford, were what we had leisure to re- 
mark in half an hour's stroll through the town. 

Near the prettily situated village of Cappoquin is the Trap- 
pist House of Mount Meilleraie, of which we could only see the 
pinnacles. The brethren w^ere presented some years since with 
a barren mountain, which they have cultivated most success- 
fully. The}^ have among themselves workmen to supph^ all 
their frugal wants : ghostly tailors and shoemakers, spiritual 
gardeners and bakers, working in silence, and serving heaven 
after their way. If this reverend communitj^, for fear of the 
opportunity of sinful talk, choose to hold their tongues, the 
next thing will be to cut them out altogether, and so render 
the danger impossible : if, being men of education and intel- 
ligence, the}' incline to turn butchers and cobblers, and smother 
their intellects b}^ base and hard menial labor, who knows but 
one day a sect ma}^ be more pious still, and rejecting even 
butchery and baker}^ as savoring too much of w^orldly con- 
venience and pride, take to a wild-beast life at once? Let us 
concede that suffering, and mental and bodil}' debasement, are 
the things most agreeable to heaven, and there is no knowing 
where such piet}^ ma}^ stop. I was very glad we had not time 
to see the grovelling place ; and as for seeing shoes made or 
fields tilled b}^ reverend amateurs, we can find cobblers and 
ploughboys to do the work bettei-. 

B}^ the way, the Quakers have set up in Ireland a sort of 
monker}' of their own. Not far from Carlo w we met a couple 
of cars drawn by white horses, and holding w^hite Quakers and 
Quakeresses, in white hats, clothes, shoes, with wdld maniacal- 
looking faces, bumping along the road. Let us hope that we 
may soon get a community of Fakeers and howling Dervishes 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 49 

into the country. It would be a refreshing thing to see such 
ghostly men in one's travels, standing at the corners of roads 
and praising the Lord by standing on one leg, or cutting and 
hacking themselves with knives like the prophets of Baal. Is it 
not as pious for a man to deprive himself of his leg as of his 
tongue, and to disfigure his body with the gashes of a knife, as 
with the hideous white raiment of the illuminated Quakers? 

While these reflections were going on, the beautiful Black- 
watei'' river suddenly opened before us, and driving along it for 
three miles through some of the most beautiful, rich country 
ever seen, we came to Lismore. Nothing can be certainly more 
magnificent than this drive. Parks and rocks covered with the 
grandest foUage ; rich, handsome seats of gentlemen in the 
midst of fair lawns and beautiful bright plantations and shrub- 
beries ; and at the end, the graceful spire of Lismore church, 
the prettiest I have seen in, or, I think, out of Ireland. Nor 
in any country that I have visited have I seen a view more 
noble — it is too rich and peaceful to be what is called roman- 
tic, but loft}^, large, and generous^ if the term may be used ; the 
river and banks as fine as the Rhine ; the castle not as large, 
but as noble and picturesque as AVarwick. As 3'ou pass the 
bridge, the banks stretch away on either side in amazing ver- 
dure, and the castle- walks remind one somewhat of the dear 
old terrace of St. Germains, with its groves, and long grave 
avenues of trees. 

The salmon-fishery of the Blackwater is let, as I hear, for a 
thousand a 3'ear. In the evening, however, we suw some gen- 
tlemen who are likel}^ to curtail the profits of the farmer of the 
fisher}^ — a company of ragged bo3's, to wit — whose occupation, 
it appears, is to poach. These young fellows were all lolling 
over the bridge, as the moon rose rather mistih', and pretended 
to be deeply enamored of the view of the river. The}' answered 
the questions of one of our party with the utmost innocence and 
openness, and one would have supposed the lads were so many 
Arcadians, but for the arrival of an old woman, who, suddenlj- 
coming up among them, poured out, upon one and all, a volley 
of curses, both deep and loud, saying that perdition would be 
their portion, and calling them " shchamers " at least a hundred 
times. Much to my wonder, the young men did not repl}" to 
the voluble old lad}' for some time, who then told us the cause 
of her anger. She had a son, — " Look at him there, the \dl- 
lain." The lad was standing, looking very unhapp}^ "His 
father, that's now dead, paid a fistful of money to bind him 
'prentice at Dungarvan : but these shchamers followed him 

4 



50 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

there ; made him break his indentures, and go poaching and 
thieving and shchaming with them." The poor old woman shook 
her hands in the air, and shouted at the top of her deep voice : 
there was sometiiing very touching in her grotesque sorrow ; 
nor did the lads make light of it at all, contenting themselves 
with a surly growl, or an oath, if directly appealed to b}^ the 
poor creature. 

So, cursing and raging, the woman went away. The son, a 
lad of fourteen, evidently the fag of the big bullies round .about 
him, stood dismally away from them, his head sunk down. I 
went up and asked him, "Was that his mother?" He said, 
"Yes." "Was she good and kind to him when he was at 
home? " He said, " Oh yes." " Why not come back to her? " 
I asked him; but he said "he couldn't." Whereupon I took 
his arm, and tried to lead him away b}^ main force ; but he said, 
" Thank 3'ou, sir, but I can't go back," and released his arm. 
We stood on the bridge some minutes longer, looking at the 
view ; but the boy, though he kept awa}^ from his comrades, 
would not come. I wonder what they have done together, that 
the poor boy is past going home ? The place seemed to be so 
quiet and beautiful, and far away from London, that I thought 
crime couldn't have reached it ; and yet here it lurks somewhere 
among six boys of sixteen, each with a stain in his heart, and 
some black histor}^ to tell. The poor widow's 3'onder was the 
only family about which I had a chance of knowing anything 
in this remote place ; nay, in all Ireland : and God help us, hers 
was a sad lot ! — a husband gone dead, — an only child gone to 
ruin. It is awful to think that there are eight millions of stories 
to be told in this island. Seven million nine hundred and 
ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight more lives 
that I, and all brother cockneys, know nothing about. Well, 
please God, they are not all like this. 

That day I heard another history. A little old disreputable 
man in tatters, with a huge steeple of a hat, came shambling 
down the street, one among the five hundred blackguards there. 
A fellow standing under the " Sun " portico (a sort of swagger- 
ing, chattering, cringing touter^ and master of ceremonies to the 
gutter,) told us something with regard to the old disreputable 
man. His son had been hanged the day before at Clonmel, for 
one of the Tipperar}^ murders. That blackguard in our ej'es 
instantl}^ looked quite different from all other blackguards : I 
saw him gesticulating at the corner of a street, and watched 
him with wonderful interest. 

The church with the handsome spire that looks so graceful 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 51 

among the trees, is a cathedral church, and one of the neatest- 
kept and prettiest edifices I have seen in Ireland. In the old 
grave3'ard Protestants and Catholics lie together — that is, not 
together ; for each has a side of the ground where they sleep, 
and, so occupied, do not quarrel. The sun was shining down 
upon the brilliant grass — and I don't think the shadows of the 
Protestant graves were an}" longer or shorter than those of the 
Catholics ! Is it the right or the left side of the graveyard 
which is nearest heaven I wonder? Look, the sun shines upon 
both alike, " and the blue sky bends over all." 

Raleigh's house is approached by a grave old avenue, and 
well-kept wall, such as is rare in this country ; and the court of 
the castle within has the solid, comfortable, quiet look, equall}" 
rare. It is like one of our colleges at Oxford : there is a side 
of the quadrangle with pretty ivj'-covered gables ; another part 
of the square is more modern ; and by the main body of the 
castle is a small chapel exceedingly picturesque. The interior 
is neat and in excellent order ; but it was unluckily done' up 
some thirt}^ years ago (as I imagine from the style), before our 
architects had learned Gothic, and all the ornamental work is 
consequently quite ugly and out of keeping. The church has 
probably been arranged bj' the same hand. In the castle are 
some plainly-furnished chambers, one or two good pictures, and 
a couple of oriel windows, the views from which up and down 
the river are exceedingij' lovely. You hear praises of the Duke 
of Devonshire as a landlord wherever you go among his vast 
estates : it is a pity that, with such a noble residence as this, 
and with such a wonderful country round about it, his Grace 
should not inhabit it more. 

Of the road from Lismore to Fermoy it does not behove 
me to ssij much, for a pelting rain came on very soon after we 
quitted the former place, and accompanied us almost without 
ceasing to Fermo}' . Here we had a glimpse of a bridge across 
the Biackwater, which we had skirted in our journej^ from Lis- 
more. Now enveloped in mist and cloud, now spanned b}' a 
rainbow, at another time, basking in sunshine, Nature* attired 
the charming prospect for us in a score of different ways ; and 
it appeared before us like a coquettish beauty who was trying 
what dress in her wardrobe might most become her. At Fer- 
moy we saw a vast barrack, and an overgrown inn, where, 
however, good fare was provided ; and thence hastening came 
by Rathcormack, and Watergrass Hill, famous for the residence 
of Father Prout, whom my friend the Rev. Francis Sylvester 
has made immortal ; from which descending we arrived at the 



52 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

beautiful wooded village of Glanmire, with its mills, and 
steeples, and streams, and neat school-houses, and pleasant 
countiy residences. This brings us down upon the superb 
stream which leads from the sea to Cork. 

The view for three miles on both sides is magnificently beau- 
tiful. Fine gardens, and parks, and villas cover the shore on 
each bank ; the river is full of brisk craft moving to the citj' or 
out to sea ; and the city finely ends the view, rising upon two 
hills on either side of the stream. I do not know a town to 
which there is an entrance more beautiful, commodious, and 
stately. 

Passing b}' numberless handsome lodges, and nearer the 
cit}^, many terraces in neat order, the road conducts us near a 
large tract of some hundred acres which have been reclaimed 
from the sea, and are destined to form a park and pleasure- 
ground for the citizens of Cork. In the river, and up to the 
bridge, some hundreds of ships were lying ; and a fleet of 
steamboats opposite the handsome house of the St. George's 
Steam-Packet Compan3\ A church stands prettily on the hill 
above it, surrounded by a number of new habitations verj^ neat 
and white. On the road is a handsome Roman Catholic chapel, 
or a chapel which will be handsome so soon as the necessary 
funds are raised to complete it. But, as at Waterford, the 
chapel has been commenced, and the monej^ has failed, and the 
fine portico which is to decorate it one day, as yet only exists 
on the architect's paper. Saint Patrick's Bridge, over which we 
pass, is a pretty building ; and Patrick Street, the main street 
of the town, has an air of business and cheerfulness, and looks 
densely thronged. 

As the carriage drove up to those neat, comfortable, and ex- 
tensive lodgings which Mrs. MacO'Boy has to let, a magnificent 
mob was formed round the vehicle, and we had an opportunity 
of at once making acquaintance with some of the dirtiest rascally 
faces that all Ireland presents. Besides these professional 
rogues and beggars, who make a point to attend on all vehi- 
cles, efver3'bod3^ else seemed to stop too, to see that wonder, a 
coach and four horses. People issued from their shops, heads 
appeared at windows. I have seen the Queen pass in state in 
London, and not bring together a crowd near so great as that 
which assembled in the busiest street of the second city of the 
kingdom, just to look at a green coach and four bay horses. 
Have they nothing else to do ? — or is it that they wtU do 
nothing but stare, swagger, and be idle in the streets? 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOO^i:. 53 

CHAPTER V. 

CORK THE AGRICULTURAL SHOW — FATHER MATHEW. 

A MAN has no need to be an agriculturist in order to take a 
warm interest in the success of the Irish Agricultural Society, 
and to see what vast good ma}^ result from it to the country. 
The National Education scheme — a noble and liberal one, at 
least as far as a stranger can see, which might have united the 
Irish people, and brought peace into this most distracted of all 
countries — failed unhappily of one of its greatest ends. The 
Protestant clergy have alwaj's treated the plan with bitter hos- 
tility- : and I do believe, in withdrawing from it, have struck 
the greatest blow to themselves as a bod}-, and to their own 
influence in the country, which has been dealt to them for many 
a 3'ear. Rich, charitable, pious, well-educated, to be found in 
every parish in Ireland, had they chosen to fraternize with the 
people and the plan, they might have directed the educational 
movement ; the}' might have attained the influence which is now 
given over entirely to the priest ; and when the present genera- 
tion, educated in the national schools, were grown up to man- 
hood, the}- might have had an interest in almost every man in 
Ireland. Are they as pious, and more polished, and better 
educated than their neighbors the priests ? There is no doubt 
of it; and by constant communion with the people, they would 
have gained all the benefits of the comparison, and advanced 
the interests of their religion far more than now they can hope 
to do. Look at the national school : throughout the country it 
is commonly by the chapel side — it is a Catholic school, directed 
and fostered by the priest ; and as no people are more eager for 
learning, more apt to receive it, or more grateful for kindness 
than the Irish, he gets all the gratitude of the scholars who 
flock to the school, and all the future influence over them, which 
naturally and justly comes to him. The Protestant wants to 
better the condition of these people : he says that the woes of 
the country are owing to its prevalent religion ; and in order 
to carry his plans of amelioration into effect, he obstinately 
refuses to hold communion with those whom he is desirous to 
convert to what he believes are sounder principles and purer 
doctrines. The clergyman will reply, that points of principle 
prevented him : with this fatal doctrinal objection, it is not, of 



54 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

course, the province of a laj^man to meddle ; but this is clear, 
that the parson might have had an influence over the country, 
and he would not ; thtit he might have rendered the Catholic 
population friendly to him, and he would not ; but, instead, has 
added one cause of estrangement and hostilit}^ more to the many 
which already existed against him. This is one of the attempts 
at union in Ireland, and one can't but think with the deepest 
regret and sorrow of its failure. 

Mr. O'Connell and his friends set going another scheme for 
advancing the prosperity of the countr}-, — the notable project 
of home manufactures, and of a coalition against foreign impor- 
tation. This was a union certainl3^ but a union of a different 
sort to that noble and peaceful one which the National Educa- 
tion Board proposed. It was to punish England, while it pre- 
tended to secure the independence of Ireland, by shutting out 
our manufactures from the Irish markets ; which were one day 
or other, it was presumed, to be filled by native produce. Large 
bodies of tradesmen and private persons in Dublin and other 
towns in Ireland associated together, vowing to purchase no 
articles of ordinary consumption or usage but what were manu- 
factured in the country. This bigoted, old-world scheme of 
restriction — not much more liberal than Swing's crusade against 
the threshing-machines, or the coalitions in England against ma- 
chinery — failed, as it deserved to do. For the benefit of a few 
tradesmen, who might find their account in selling at dear rates 
their clumsj" and imperfect manufactures, it was found impossi- 
ble to tax a people that are alread}^ poor enough ; nor did the 
part}^ take into account the cleverness of the merchants across 
sea, who were by no means disposed to let go their Irish cus- 
tomers. The famous Irish frieze uniform which was to distin- 
guish these patriots, and which Mr. O'Connell lauded so loudlj^ 
and so simpl}^ came over made at half-price from Leeds and 
Glasgow, and was retailed as real Irish b}' many worthies who 
had been first to join the union. You ma}^ still see shops here 
and there with their pompous announcement of " Irish Manu- 
factures ; " but the scheme is long gone to ruin : it could not 
stand against the vast force of English and Scotch capital and 
machinery, any more than the Ulster spinning-wheel against 
the huge factories and steam-engines which one ma^^ see about 
Belfast. 

The scheme of the Agricultui'al Society is a much more feasi- 
ble one ; and if, please God, it can be carried out, likel}' to give 
not only prosperitj^ to the country, but union likewise in a great 
degree. As yet Protestants and Catholics concerned in it have 



THE miSH SKETCH BOOK. 55 

worked well together; and it is a blessing to see them meet 
upon any ground without heartburning and quarrelling. Last 
3'ear, Mr. Purcell, who is well known in Ireland as the principal 
mail-coach contractor for the countr}-, — who himself employs 
more workmen in Dublin than perhaps any other person there, 
and has also more land under cultivation than most of the great 
landed proprietors in the countrj', — wrote a letter to the news- 
papers, giving his notions of the fallacy of the exclusive-dealing 
system, and pointing oat at the same time how he considered 
tiie country might be benefited — b}^ agricultural improvement, 
namely. He spoke of the neglected state of the countr}', and 
its amazing natural fertility ; and, for the benefit of all, called 
upon the landlords and landholders to use their interest and 
develop its vast agricultural resources. Manufactures are at 
best but of slow growth, and demand not only time, but capi- 
tal ; meanwhile, until the habits of the people should grow to 
be such as to render manufactures feasible, there was a great 
neglected treasure, lying under their feet, which might be the 
source of prosperit}' to all. He pointed out the superior meth- 
ods of husbandrj^ employed in Scotland and England, and the 
great results obtained upon soils naturall}' much poorer ; and, 
taking the Highland Society for an example, the establishment 
of which had done so much for the prosperity of Scotland, he 
proposed the formation in Ireland of a similar association. 

The letter made an extraordinar}^ sensation throughout the 
countr}'. Noblemen and gentry of all sides took it up ; and 
numbers of these wrote to Mr. Purcell, and gave him their 
cordial adhesion to the plan. A meeting was held, and the 
Society formed : subscriptions were set on foot, headed by the 
Lord Lieutenant (Fortescue) and the Duke of Leinster, each 
with a donation of 200/. ; and the trustees had soon 5,000Z. at 
their disposal: with, besides, an annual revenue of 1,000/. 
The subscribed capital is funded ; and political subjects ^strictly 
excluded. The Society has a show yearl}' in one of the prin- 
cipal towns of Ireland : it corresponds with the various local 
agricultural associations throughout the country ; encourages 
the formation of new ones ; and distributes prizes and rewards. 
It has further in contemplation, to establish a large Agricultural 
school for farmers' sons ; and has formed in Dublin an Agricul- 
tural Bazaar and Museum. 



It was the first meeting of the Society which we were come 
to see at Cork. Will it be able to carry its excellent intentions 



56 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

into effect? "Will the present enthusiasm of its founders and 
members continue ? Will one political part}' or another get the 
upper hand in it? One can't help thinking of these points with 
some anxiet}^ — of the latter especially: as 3^et, happil}^, the 
clerg}'' of either side have kept aloof, and the union seems pretty 
cordial and sincere. 

There are in Cork, as no doubt in every town of Ireland 
sufficiently considerable to support a plurality of hotels, some 
especiall}^ devoted to the Conservative and Liberal parties. 
Two dinners were to be given apropos of the Agricultural 
meeting ; and in order to conciliate all parties, it was deter- 
mined that the Tory landlord should find the cheap ten-shilling 
dinner for one thousand, the Whig landlord the genteel guinea 
dinner for a few select hundreds. 

I wish Mr. Cuff, of the " Freemasons' Tavern," could have 
been at Cork to take a lesson from the latter gentleman : for 
he would have seen that there are means of having not merely 
enough to eat, but enough of the very best, for the sum of a 
guinea ; that persons can have not onl}' wine, but good wine, 
and if incHned (as some topers are on great occasions) to pass 
to another bottle, — a second, a third, or a fifteenth bottle, for 
what I know is ver}' much at their service. It was a fine sight 
to see Mr. MacDowall presiding over an ice-well and extracting 
the bottles of champagne. With what calmness he did it ! 
How the corks popped, and the liquor fizzed, and the agricul- 
turaUsts drank the bumpers off ! And how good the wine was 
too — the greatest merit of all ! Mr. MacDowall did credit to 
his liberal politics by his liberal dinner. 

" Sir," sa3's a waiter whom I asked for currant-jell}^ for the 
haunch — (there were a dozen such smoking on various parts 
of the table — think of that, Mr. Cuff!) — "Sir," says the 
waiter, "there's no jelly, but I've brought you some very fine 
lobster-sauce.'' I think this was the most remarkable speech 
of the 'evening ; not excepting that of my Lord Bernard, who, 
to three hundred gentlemen more or less connected with farm- 
ing, had actually the audacity to quote the words of the great 
agricultural poet of Rome — 

" fortunatos nimium sua si" Sec. 

How long are our statesmen in England to continue to back 
their opinions by the Latin grammar? Are the Irish agricul- 
turalists so very happy, if they did but know it — at least those 
out of doors? Well, those within were jolly enough. Cham- 
pagne and claret, turbot and haunch, are gifts of the justissima 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 57 

tellus^ with which few husbandmen will be disposed to quarrel ; 
— no more let us quarrel either with eloquence after dinner. 

If the Liberal landlord had shown his principles in his dinner, 
the Conservative certainly- showed his ; by conserving as much 
profit as possible for himself. We sat down one thousand to 
some two hundred and fifty cold joints of meat. Ever}' man 
was treated with a pint of wine, and ver}' bad too, so that there 
was the less cause to grumble because more was not served. 
Those agriculturalists who had a mind to drink whiskey-and- 
water had to pa}' extra for their punch. Nay, after shouting 
in vain for half an hour to a waiter for some cold water, the 
unhappy writer could only get it by promising a shilling. The 
sum was paid on delivery of the article ; but as everybody 
round was thirsty too, I got but a glassful from the decanter, 
which only served to make me long for more. The waiter (the 
rascal!) promised more, but never came near us afterwards: 
he had got his shilling, and so he left us in a hot room, sur- 
rounded by a thousand hot fellow- creatures, one of them mak- 
ing a dry speech. The agriculturalists were not on this 
occasion nimium fortunati. 

To have heard a nobleman, however, who discoursed to the 
meeting, you would have fancied that we were the luckiest 
mortals under the broiling July sun. He said he could con- 
ceive nothing more delightful than to see, "on proper occa- 
sions," — (mind, on proper occasions I) — " the landlord mixing 
with his tenantry ; and to look around him at a scene like this, 
and see the condescension with which the gentry mingled with 
the farmers ! " Prodigious condescension truly ! This neat 
speech seemed to me an oratoric slap on the face to about nine 
hundred and seventy persons present ; and being one of the 
latter, I began to hiss by way of acknowledgment of the com- 
pliment, and hoped that a strong party would have destroyed 
the harmony of the evening, and done likewise. But not one 
hereditary bondsman would join in the compliment — and they 
were quite right too. The old lord who talked about conde- 
scension is one of the greatest and kindest landlords in Ireland. 
If he thinks he condescends by doing his duty and mixing with 
men as good as himself, the fault lies with the latter. Why 
are they so ready to go down on their knees to my lord ? A 
man can't help "condescending" to another who will persist 
in kissing his shoestrings. They respect rank in England — 
the people seem almost to adore it here. 

As an instance of the intense veneration for lords which dis- 
tinguishes this county of Cork, I may mention what occurred 



68 THE IRISPI SKETCH BOOK. 

afterwards. The members of the Cork Society gave a dinner 
to their guests of the Irish Agricultural Association. The 
founder of the latter, as Lord Downshire stated, was Mr. Pur- 
cell : and as it was agreed on all hands that the Society so 
founded was likelj^ to prove of the greatest benefit to the 
country, one might have supposed that any compliment paid to 
it might have been paid to it through its founder. Not so. 
The Society asked the lords to dine, and Mr. Purcell to meet 
the lords. 

After the grand dinner came a grand ball, which was indeed 
one of the ga^'est and prettiest sights ever seen ; nor was it 
the less agreeable, because the ladies of the city mixed with 
the ladies from the country, and vied with them in grace and 
beaut}'. The charming ga^et}' and frankness of the Irish ladies 
have been noted and admired b}^ every foreigner who has had 
the good fortune to mingle in their societ}' ; and I hope it is 
not detracting from the merit of the upper classes to say that 
the lower are not a whit less pleasing. I never saw in any 
country such a general grace of manner and ladyhood. In the 
midst of their ga3'ety, too, it must be remembered that the}^ 
are the chastest of women, and that no countrj^ in Europe can 
boast of such a general purity. 

In regard of the Munster ladies, I had the pleasure to be 
present at two or three evening-parties at Cork, and must say 
that they seem to excel the English ladies not only in wit and 
vivacity, but in the still more important article of the toilette. 
The}' are as well dressed as Frenchwomen, and incomparably 
handsomer \ and if ever this book reaches a thirtieth edition, 
and I can find out better words to express admiration, they 
shall be inserted here'. Among the ladies' accomplishments, I 
ma}" mention that I have heard in two or three private families 
such fine music as is rarely to be met with out of a capital. In 
one house w^e had a supper and songs afterwards, in the old 
honest fashion. Time was in Ireland when the custom was a 
common one ; but the w^orld grows languid as it grows genteel ; 
and I fancy it requires more than ordinary spirit and courage 
now for a good old gentleman, at the head of his kind family 
table, to strike up a good old family song. 

The delightful old gentleman who sung the song here men- 
tioned could not help talking of the Temperance movement 
with a sort of regret, and said that all the fun had gone out of 
Ireland since Father Mathew banished the whiskey from it. 
Indeed, any stranger going amongst the people can perceive 
that they are now anything but gay. I have seen a great nura- 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 59 

ber of crowds and meetings of people in all parts of Ireland, and 
found them atl gloom3\ There is nothing like the merry-mak- 
ing one reads of in the Irish novels. Lever and Maxwell must 
be taken as chroniclers of the old times — the pleasant but 
wrong old times — for which one can't help having an anti- 
quarian fondness. 

On the da}^ we arrived at Cork, and as the passengers de- 
scended from "the drag," a stout, handsome, honest-looking 
man, of some two-and-forty 3'ears, was passing b}', and re- 
ceived a number of bows from the crowd around. It was Theo- 
bald Mathew, with whose face a thousand little print-shop 
windows had already rendered me familiar. He shook hands 
with the master of the carriage very cordially, and just as cor- 
dially vvith the master's coachman, a disciple of temperance, as 
at least half Ireland is at present. The day after the famous 
dinner at MacDo wall's, some of us came down rather late, per- 
haps in consequence of the events of the night before — (I think 
it was Lord Bernard's quotation from Virgil, or else the absence 
of the currant-jelly for the venison, that occasioned a slight 
headache among some of us, and an extreme longing for soda- 
water,) — and there was the Apostle of Temperance seated at 
the table drinking tea. Some of us felt a little ashamed of our- 
selves, and did not like to ask somehow for the soda-water in 
such an awful presence as that. Besides, it would have been 
a confession to a Catholic priest, and, as a Protestant, I am 
above it. 

The world likes to know how a great man appears even to 
a valet-de-chambre, and I suppose it is one's A-anity that is flat- 
tered in such rare company to find the great man quite as un- 
assuming as the very smallest personage present ; and so like 
to other mortals, that we would not know him to be a great 
man at all, did we not know his name, and what he had done. 
There is nothing remarkable in Mr. Mathew's manner, except 
that it is exceedingly simple, hearty, and manly, and that he 
does not wear the downcast, demure look which, I know not 
why, certainly characterizes the chief part of the gentlemen of 
his profession. Whence comes that general scowl which dark- 
ens the faces of the Irish priesthood? I have met a score of 
these reverend gentlemen in the country, and not one of them 
seemed to look or speak frankly, except Mr. Mathew, and a 
couple more. He is almost the only man, too, that I have met 
in Ireland, who, in speaking of public matters, did not talk as 
a partisan. With the state of the country, of landlord, tenant, 
and peasantry, he seemed to be most curiously and intimately 



CO THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

acquainted ; speaking of their wants, differences, and the means 
of bettering them, with the minutest practical knowledge. And 
it was impossible in hearing him to know, but from previous 
acquaintance with his character, whether he was Whig or Torj', 
Catholic or Protestant. Wh}^ does not Government make a 
Privy Councillor of him ? — that is, if he would honor the Right 
Honorable bod}^ by taking a seat amongst them. His knowledge 
of the people is prodigious, and their confidence in him as great ; 
and what a touching attachment that is which these poor fellows 
show to any one who has their cause at heart — even to any 
one who says he has ! 

Avoiding all political questions, no man seems more eager 
than he for the practical improvement of this country. Leases 
and rents, farming improvements, reading-societies, music-soci- 
eties — he was full of these, and of his schemes of temperance 
above all. He never misses a chance of making a convert, and 
has his hand ready and a pledge in his pocket for sick or poor. 
One of his disciples in a liver3'-coat came into the room with 
a tray — Mr. Mathew recognized him, and shook him by the 
hand directly ; so he did with the strangers who were presented 
to him ; and not with a courtly popularity-hunting air, but, as 
it seemed, from sheer hearty kindness, and a desire to do every 
one good. 

When breakfast was done — (he took but one cup of tea, 
and says that, from having been a great consumer of tea and 
refreshing liquids before, a small cup of tea, and one glass of 
water at dinner, now serve him for his day's beverage) — he 
took the ladies of our part}^ to see his burying-ground — a new 
and handsome cemeterj^ lying a little way out of the town, and 
where, thank God ! Protestants and Cathohcs may lie together, 
without clergymen quarrelling over their coffins. 

It is a handsome piece of ground, and was formerl}^ a botanic 
garden ; but the funds failed for that undertaking, as they 
have for a thousand other pubhc entei-p rises in this poor dis- 
united country ; and so it has been converted into a hortus siccus 
for us mortals. There is alread}^ a prett}^ large collection. In 
the midst is a place for Mathew himself — honor to him living 
or dead ! Meanwhile, numerous stately monuments have been 
built, flowers planted here and there over dear remains, and the 
garden in which they lie is rich, green, and beautiful. Here is 
a fine statue, by Hogan, of a weeping genius that broods over 
the tomb of an honest merchant and clothier of the city. He 
took a liking to the artist, his fellow-townsman, and ordered 
his own monument, and had the gratification to see it arrive 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 61 

from Rome a few weeks before his death. A prettier thing 
even than the statue is the tomb of a Httle boj', which has been 
shut in b}- a large and curious grille of iron- work. The father 
worked it, a blacksmith, whose darling the child was, and he 
spent three j-ears in hammering out this mausoleum. It is the 
beautiful story of the pot of ointment told again at the poor 
blacksmith's anvil ; and who can but like him for placing this 
fine gilded cage over the bod}^ of his poor little one ? Presently 
3'ou come to a Frenchwoman's tomb, with a French epitaph by 
a French husband, and a pot of artificial flowers in a niche — a 
wig, and a pot of rouge, as it were, just to make the dead look 
passabl}' well. It is his manner of showing his sj-mpathy for 
an immortal soul that has passed awa3^ The poor may be buried 
here for nothing ; and here, too, once more thank God ! each 
maj' rest without priests or parsons scowling hell-fire at his 
neighbor unconscious under the grass. 



CHAPTER VI. 

CORK — THE URSULINE CONVENT. 

There is a large Ursuline convent at Blackrock, near Cork, 
and a lady who had been educated there was kind enough to 
invite me to join a part}' to visit the place. Was not this a 
great privilege for a heretic? I have peeped into convent 
chapels abroad, and occasionally caught glimpses of a white 
veil or black gown ; but to see the pious ladies in their own 
retreat was quite a novelt}' — much more exciting than the ex- 
hibition of Long Horns and Short Horns by which we had to 
pass on our road to Blackrock. 

The three miles' ride is very pretty. As far as Nature goes, 
she has done her best for the neighborhood ; and the noble 
hills on the opposite coast of the river, studded with innumer- 
able pretty villas and garnished with fine trees and meadows, 
the river itself dark blue under a brilliant cloudless heaven, and 
livelj^ with its multiplicitj^ of gay craft, accompany the traveller 
along the road ; except here and there where the view is shut 
out b}' fine avenues of trees, a beggarly row of cottages, or a 
villa wall. Rows of dirty cabins, and smart bankers' country- 
houses, meet one at everj^ turn ; nor do the latter want for fine 



62 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

names, you may be sure. The Irish grandiloquence display* 
itself finely in the invention of such ; and, to the great incon- 
venience, I should think, of the postman, the names of the 
houses appear to change with the tenants : for I saw man}- old 
houses with new placards in front, setting forth the last title of 
the house. 

I had the box of the carriage (a smart vehicle that would 
have done credit to the ring) , and found the gentleman b}^ my 
side very communicative. He named the owners of the pretty 
mansions and lawns visible on the other side of the river : they 
appear almost all to be merchants, who have made their fortunes 
in the cit}'. In the like manner, though the air of the town is 
extremel}' fresh and pure to a pair of London lungs, the Cork 
shopkeeper is not satisfied with it, but contrives for himself a 
place (with an euphonious name, no doubt) in the suburbs of 
the cit}'. These stretch to a great extent along the beautiful, 
liberal-looking banks of the stream. 

I asked the man about the Temperance, and whether he was 
a temperance man? He replied by pulhng a medal out of his 
waistcoat pocket, saying that he alwa3's carried it about with 
him for fear of temptation. He said that he took the pledge 
two years ago, before which time, as he confessed, he had been 
a sad sinner in the way of drink. " I used to take," said he, 
"from eighteen to twenty glasses of whiskey a da}^ I was 
always at the drink ; I'd be often up all night at the public : I 
was turned away by my present master on account of it ; " — 
and all of a sudden he resolved to break it off. I asked him 
whether he had not at first experienced ill-health from the sud- 
denness of the change in his habits ; but he said — and let all 
persons meditating a conversion from liquor remember the fact 
— that the abstinence never affected him in the least, but that 
he went on growing better and better in health every day, 
stronger and more able of mind and bod3^ 

The man was a Catholic, and in speaking of the numerous 
places of worship along the road as we passed, I'm sorry to 
confess, dealt some rude cuts with his whip regarding the 
Protestants. Coachman as he was, the fellow's remarks seemed 
to be correct : for it appears that the religious world of Cork is 
of so excessively enlightened a kind, that one church will not 
content one pious person ; but that, on the contrary, they will 
be at Church of a morning, at Independent church of an after 
noon, at a Darb3'ite congregation of an evening, and so on, 
gathering excitement or information from all sources which the\ 
could come at. Is not this the case ? are not some of the ultra 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 63 

serious as eager after a new preacher, as the iiltra-worldl}' for a 
new dancer? don't thej talk and gossip about him as much? 
Thougli theolog}' from the coach-box is rather questionable, 
(after all the man was just as much authorized to propound his 
notions as many a fellow from an amateur pulpit,) yet he cer- 
tainl}' had the right here as far as his charge against certain 
Protestants went. 

The reasoning from it was quite obvious, and I'm sure was 
in the man's mind, though he did not utter it, as we drove b}' 
this time into the convent gate. " Here," says coachman, " is 
0U7' church, /don't drive my master and mistress from church 
to chapel, from chapel to conventicle, hunting after new 
preachers ever}' Sabbath. I bring them ever}^ Sunda}' and set 
them down at the same place, where the}' know that everything 
they hear must be right. Their fathers have done the same 
thing before them ; and the young ladies and gentlemen will 
come here too ; and all the new-fangled doctors and teachers 
may go roaring through the land, and still here we come regu- 
larly, not caring a whit for the vagaries of others, knowing that 
we ourselves are in the real old right original wa}'." 

I am sure this is what the fellow meant b}' his sneer at the 
Protestants, and their gadding from one doctrine to another ; 
but there was no call and no time to have a battle with him, as 
by this time we had entered a large lawn covered with ha}' cocks, 
and prettily, as I think, ornamented with a border of blossoming 
potatoes, and drove up to the front door of the convent. It is 
a huge old square house, with many windows, having probably 
been some flaunting squire's residence ; but the nuns have taken 
off somewhat from its rakish look, by flinging out a couple of 
wings with chapels, or buildings like chapels, at either end. 

A large, lofty, clean, trim hall was open to a flight of steps, 
and we found a young lady in the hall, playing, instead of a 
pious sonata — which I vainly thought was the practice in such 
godly seminaries of learning — that abominable rattling piece 
of music called la Violette^ which it has been my lot to hear 
executed by other young ladies ; and which (with its like) has 
always appeared to me to be constructed upon this simple 
fashion — to take a tune, and then, as it were, to fling it down 
and up stairs. As soon as the young lady playing "the 
Violet" saw us, she quitted the hall and retired to an inner 
apartment, where she resumed that delectable piece at her leisure. 
Indeed there were pianos all over the educational part of the 
house. 

We were shown into a gay parlor (where hangs a pretty 



64 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

drawing representing the melancliol}' old convent which the 
Sisters previousl}' inhabited in Cork) , and presently Sister No. 
Two-Eight made her appearance — a pretty and graceful lad}-, 
attired as on the next page.* 

" 'Tis the prettiest nun of the whole house," whispered the lady 
who had been educated at the convent ; and I must own that 
slim, gentle, and pretty as this young lady was, and calculated 
with her kind smiling face and little figure to frighten no one 
in the world, a great six-foot Protestant could not help looking 
at her with a little tremble. I had never been in a nun's com- 
pany before; I'm afraid of such — I don't care to own — in 
their black m3'sterious robes and awful veils. As priests in 
gorgeous vestments, and little rosy incense-bo3^s in red, bob 
their heads and knees up and down before altars, or clatter 
silver pots full of smoking odors, I feel I don't know what sort 
of tlirill and secret creeping terror. Here I was, in a room 
with a real live nun, pretty and pale — I wonder has she an}^ 
of her sisterhood immured in oubliettes do"wn below ; is her 
poor little weak, delicate body scarred all over with scourgings, 
iron collars, hair shirts? What has she had for dinner to-day? 
— as we passed the refectorj^ there was a faint sort of vapid 
nun-like vegetable smell, speaking of fasts and wooden platters ; 
and I could picture to myself silent sisters eating their meal — 
a grim old 3'ellow one in the reading-desk, croaking out an 
extract from a sermon for their edification. 

But is it polic}', or hypocrisy, or reality? These nuns affect 
extreme happiness and content with their condition : a smiling 
beatitude, which they insist belongs pecuharly to them, and 
about which the onl}^ doubtful point is the manner in which it is 
produced before strangers. Young ladies educated in convents 
have often mentioned this fact — how the nuns persist in de- 
claring and proving to them their own extreme enjo3aiient of life. 

Were all the smiles of that kind-looking Sister Two-Eight 
perfectly sincere? Whenever she spoke her face w^as lighted 
up with one. She seemed perfectl}^ radiant with happiness, 
tripping lightl}^ before us, ancl distributing kind compliments to 
each, which made me in a very few minutes forget the introduc- 
tor}' fright which her poor little presence had occasioned. 

She took us through the hall (where was the vegetable 
savor before mentioned), and showed us the contrivance b}^ 
which the name of Two-Eight was ascertained. Each nun has 
a number, or a combination of numbers, prefixed to her name ; 
and a bell is pulled a corresponding number of times, by which 

* This refers to an illustrated edition of the work. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 65 

eacii sister knows when she is wanted. Poor souls ! are the}"- 
always on the look-out for that bell, that the ringing of it should 
be supposed infallibly to awaken their attention. 

From the hall the sister conducted us through ranges of 
apartments, and I had almost said avenues of pianofortes, 
whence here and there a startled pensioner would rise Mnnuleo 
simihs, at our approach, seeking a pavidam matrem in the 
person of a demure old stout mother hard b}'. We were taken 
through a hall decorated with a series of pictures of Pope Pius 
VI., — wonderful adventures, truly, in the life of the gentle old 
man. In one you see him graceful!}' receiving a Prince and 
Princess of Russia (tremendous incident ! ) . The Prince has 
a pigtail, the Princess powder and a train, the Pope a — but 
never mind, we shall never get through the house at this rate. 

Passing through Pope Pius's gallery, we came into a long, 
clean, loft}' passage, Vvdth many little doors on each side ; and 
here I confess my heart began to thump again. These were 
the doors of the cells of the Sisters. Bon Dieu ! and is it pos- 
sible that I shall see a nun's cell ? Do I not recollect the nun'^ 
cell in " The Monk," or in " The Romance of the Forest?" or, 
if not there, at any rate, in a thousand noble romances, read in 
earl}^ days of half-holiday perhaps — romances at twoi^ence a 
volume. 

Come in, in the name of the saints ! Here is the cell. I 
took off m}^ hat and examined the little room with much curious 
wonder and reverence. There was an iron bed, with comfort- 
able curtains of green serge. There was a little clothes-chest 
of 3'ellow wood, neatly cleaned, and a wooden chair beside it, 
and a desk on the chest, and about six pictures on the wall — 
little religious pictures : a saint with gilt paper round him ; 
the Virgin showing on her breast a bleeding heart, with a sword 
run through it ; and other sad little subjects, calculated to make 
the inmate of the cell think of the sufferings of the saints and 
mart3TS of the Church. Then there was a little crucifix, and a 
wax-candle on the ledge ; and here was the place where the 
poor black-veiled things were to pass their lives for ever ! 

After having seen a couple of these little cells, we left the 
corridors in which they were, and were conducted, with a sort 
of pride on the nun's part, I thought, into the grand room 
of the convent — a parlor with pictures of saints, and a gay 
paper, and a series of small fineries, such onl}' as women very 
idle know how to make. There were some portraits in the 
room, one an atrocious daub of an ugly old woman, sur- 
rounded by children still more hideous. Somebody had told 

6 



66 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

the poor iiun that this was a fine thing, and she believed it — 
heaven bless her ! — quite implicitl}^ : nor is the picture of the 
ugly old Canadian woman the first reputation that has been 
made this way. 

Then from the fine parlor we went to the museum. I don't 
know how we should be curious of such trifles ; but the chroni- 
cling of small-beer is the main business of life — people only 
differing, as Tom Moore wisely says in one of his best poems, 
about their own peculiar tap. The poor nun's little collection 
of gimcracks was displayed in great state : there were spars in 
one drawer ; and, I think, a Chinese shoe and some Indian 
wares in another ; and some medals of the Popes, and a couple 
of score of coins ; and a clean glass case, full of antique 
works of French theology of the distant period of Louis XV., 
to judge by the bindings — and this formed the main part of 
the museum. "The chief objects were gathered together by 
a single nun," said the sister with a look of wonder, as she 
went prattling on, and leading us hither and thither, like a 
.child showing her toys. 

What strange mixture of pity and pleasure is it which 
comes over you sometimes when a child takes you by the hand, 
and leads you up solemnly to some little treasure of its own — 
a feather or a string of glass beads ? I declare I have often 
looked at such with more delight than at diamonds ; and felt 
the same sort of soft wonder examining the nun's little treasure- 
chamber. There was something touching in the ver}' poverty 
of it : — had it been finer, it would not have been half so good. 

And now we had seen all the wonders of the house but the 
chapel, and thither we were conducted ; all the ladies of our 
party kneeling down as they entered the building, and saying 
a short prayer. 

This, as I am on sentimental confessions, I must own affect- 
ed me too. It was a very prett}^ and tender sight. I should 
have liked to kneel down too, but was ashamed ; our northern 
usages not encouraging — among men at least — that sort of 
abandonment of dignity. Do any of us dare to sing psalms 
at church? and don't we look with rather a sneer at a man who 
does? 

The chapel had nothing remarkable in it except a very good 
organ, as I was told ; for we were allowed only to see the ex- 
terior of that instrument, our pious guide with much pleasure 
removing an oil-cloth which covered the mahogany. At one 
side of the altar is a long high grille, through which you see a 
hall, where the nuns have their stalls, and sit in chapel time ; 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 67 

and beyond this hjill is another small chapel, with a couple of 
altars, and one beautiful print in one of them — a German 
Holy Family — a prim, mystical, tender piece, just befitting 
the place. 

In the grille is a little wicket and a ledge before it. It is to 
this wicket that women are brought to kneel ; and a bishop is 
in the chapel on the other side, and takes their hands in his, 
and receives their vows. I had never seen the like before, and 
own that I felt a sort of shudder at looking at the^ place. 
There rest the girl's knees as she offers herself up, and for- 
swears the sacred affections which God gave her ; there she 
kneels and denies for ever the beautiful duties of her being : — 
no tender maternal yearnings, no gentle attachments are to be 
had for her or from her, — there she kneels and commits sui- 
cide upon her heart. O honest Martin Luther ! thank God, 
3'ou came to pull that infernal, wicked, unnatural altar down 
— that cursed Paganism ! Let people, solitary, worn out by 
sorrow or oppressed with extreme remorse, retire to such 
places ; fly and beat your breasts in caverns and wildernesses, 
O women, if you will, but be Magdalens first. It is shameful 
that any young girl, with any vocation however seemingly strong, 
should be allowed to bury herself in this small tomb of a few 
acres. Look at yonder nun, — pretty, smihng, graceful, and 
young, — what has God's world done to her, that she should run 
from it, or she done to the world, that she should avoid it? 
What call has she to give up all her duties and affections ? and 
would she not be best serving God with a husband at her side, 
and a child on her knee ? 

The sights in the house having been seen, the nun led us 
through the grounds and gardens. There was the hay in front, 
a fine yellow cornfield at the back of the house, and a large 
melancholy -looking kitchen-garden ; in all of which places the 
nuns, for certain hours in the day, are allowed to take recrea- 
tion. " The nuns here are allowed to amuse themselves more 
than ours at New Hall," said a little girl who is educated at 
that English convent: " do you know that here the nuns may 
make hay ? " What a privilege is this ! We saw none of the 
black sisterhood availing themselves of it, however : the hay 
was neatly piled into cocks and ready for housing ; so the poor 
souls must wait until next year before they can enjoy this blessed 
sport once more. 

Turning into a narrow gate with the nun at our head, we 
found ourselves in a little green, quiet inclosure — it was the 
burial-ground of the convent. The poor things know the places 



68 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

where they are to Ue : she who was with us talked smihngty of 
being stretched there one da}', and pointed out the resting-place 
of a favorite old sister who had died three months back, and 
been buried in the very midst of the little ground. And here 
they come to hve and die. The gates are open, but they never 
go out. All their world lies in a dozen acres of ground ; and 
they sacrifice their lives in early youth, many of them pass- 
ing^ from the grave up stairs in the house to the one scarcely 
narrower in the churchyard here ; and are seemingly not un- 
happy. 

I came out of the place quite sick ; and looking before me, 

— there, thank God! was the blue spire of Monkstown church 
soaring up into the free sky — a river in front roUing away to 
the sea — liberty, sunshine, all sorts of glad hfe and motion 
round about : and I couldn't but thank heaven for it, and the 
Being whose service is freedom, and who has given us affections 
that we may use them — not smother and kill them ; and a noble 
world to live in, that we may admire it and Him who made it 

— not shrink from it, as though we dared not live there, but 
must turn our backs upon it and its bountiful Provider. 

And in conclusion, if that most cold-blooded and precise of 
all personages, the respectable and respected English reader, 
may feel disposed to sneer at the above sentimental homily, or 
to fancy that it has been written for effect — let him go and see 
a convent for himself. I declare I think for my part that we 
have as much right to permit Sutteeism in India as to allow 
women in the United Kingdom to take these wicked vows, or 
CathoUc bishops to receive them ; and that Government has 
as good a right to interpose in such cases, as the police have to 
prevent a man from hanging himself, or the doctor to refuse a 
glass of prussic-acid to any one who may have a wish to go 
out of the world. 



CHAPTER VII. 

CORK. 



Amidst the bustle and gayeties of the Agricultural meeting, 
the working-day aspect of the city was not to be judged of: but 
I passed a fortnight in the place afterwards, during which time 
it settled ^own to Hs calm and usual condition. The flashy 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 69 

French and plated goods' shops, which made a show for the 
occasion of the meeting, disappeared ; 3'ou were no longer 
crowded and jostled by smart male and female dandies in walk- 
ing down Patrick Street or the Mall ; the poor little theatre 
had scarcely a soul on its bare benches : I went once, but the 
dreadful brass-band of a dragoon regiment blew me out of 
doors. This music could be heard much more pleasantly at 
some distance off in the street. 

One sees in this country many a grand and tall iron gate 
leading into a ver}^ shabb}' field covered with thistles ; and the 
simile to the gate will in some degree apply to this famous cit}^ 
of Cork, ^- which is certainly not a city of palaces, but of which 
the outlets are magnificent. That towards Killarney leads by 
the Lee, the old avenue of Mard3'lie, and the rich green pastures 
stretching down to the river ; and as 3'ou pass by the portico of 
the county gaol, as fine and as glancing as a palace, you see 
the wooded heights on the other side of the fair stream, crowded 
with a thousand pretty villas and terraces, presenting every 
image of comfort and prosperity. The entrance from Cove 
has been mentioned before ; nor is it easy to find anywhere 
a nobler, grander, and more cheerful scene. . 

Along the quays up to St. Patrick's Bridge there is a certain 
bustle. Some forty ships may be lying at anchor along the 
walls of the qua}^, and its pavements are covered with goods of 
various merchandise : here a cargo of hides ; yonder a company 
of soldiers, their kits, and their Dollies, who are taking leave 
of the red-coats at the steamer's side. Then 3'OU shall see a 
fine, squeaking, shrieking drove of pigs embarking b3' the same* 
conveyance, and insinuated into the steamer b3' all sorts of 
coaxing, threatening, and wheedling. Seamen are singing and 
yeehoing on board ; grim3^ coUiers smoking at the liquor-shops 
along the qua3' ; and as for the bridge — there is a crowd of 
idlers on that^ you ma3' be sure, sprawling over the balustrade 
for ever and ever, with long ragged coats, steeple-hats, and 
stump3' doodeens. 

Then along the Coal Quay 3^ou may see a clump of jingle- 
drivers, who have all a word for your honor ; and in Patrick 
Street, at three o'clock, when "The Rakes of Mallow" gets 
under weigh (a cracked old coach with the paint rubbed off, 
some smart horses, and an exceedingl3' dingy harness) — at 
three o'clock, you will be sure to see at least fort3^ persons-wait- 
ing to witness the departure of the said coach : so that the 
neighborhood of the inn has an air of some bustle. 

At the other extremity of the town, if it be assize time, 3"0U 



70 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

will see some five hundred persons squatting by the court- 
house, or buzzing and talking within. The rest of the respect- 
able quarter of the cit}' is pretty free from an3'thing like bustle : 
there is no more life in Patrick Street than in Russell Square of 
a sunshiny day ; and as for the Mall, it is as lonely as the chief 
street of a German Residenz. 

I have mentioned the respectable quarter of the cit}^ ■ — for 
there are quarters in it swarming with life, but of such a fright- 
ful kind as no pen need care to describe : alleys where the odors 
and rags and darkness are so hideous, that one runs frightened 
aw^ay from them. In some of them, they say, not the police- 
man, only the priest, can penetrate. I asked a Roman Catholic 
clergyman of the city to take me into some of these haunts, but 
he refused very justly ; and indeed a man may be quite satisfied 
with what he can see in the mere outskirts of the districts, with- 
out caring to penetrate further. Not far from the quays is an 
open space where tlie poor hold a market or bazaar. Here is 
livehness and business enough : ragged women chattering and 
crying their beggarly wares ; ragged boys gloating over dirty 
apple- and pie-stalls ; fish frying, and raw and stinking ; clothes- 
booths, where you might buy a wardrobe for scarecrows ; old 
nails, hoops, bottles, and marine-wares ; old battered furniture, 
that has been sold against starvation. In the streets round 
about this place, on a sunshiny da}^ all the black gaping win- 
dows and mould}' steps are covered with squatting lazy figures 
— women, with bare breasts, nursing babies, and leering a joke 
as you pass b}^ — ragged children paddling everywhere. It is 
but two minutes' walk out of Patrick Street, where you come 
upon a fine flash}^ shop of plated-goods, or a grand French 
emporium of dolls, walking-sticks, carpet-bags, and perfumer}^ 
The markets hard by have a rough, old-fashioned, cheerful look ; 
it's a comfort after the misery to hear a red butcher's wife cry- 
ing after 3^ou to buy an honest piece of meat. 

The poor-house, newly established, cannot hold a fifth part 
of the poverty- of this great town : the richer inhabitants are 
untiring in their charities, and the Catholic clergyman before 
mentioned took me to see a delivery of rice, at which he pre- 
sides ever}' day until the potatoes shall come in. This market, 
over which he presides so kindly, is held in an old bankrupt 
warehouse, and the rice is sold considerabl}^ under the prime 
cost-lo hundreds of struggling applicants who come when lucky 
enough to have wherewithal to pay. 

That the cit}'^ contains m.uch w^ealth is evidenced by the 
number of handsome villas round about it, wdiere the rich mer- 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 71 

chants dwell ; but the wareliouses of the wealthy provision- 
merchants make no show to the stranger walking the streets ; 
and of the retail-shops, if some are spacious and handsome, 
most look as if too big for the business carried on within. The 
want of ready mone}^ was quite curious. In three of the prin- 
cipal shops I purchased articles, and tendered a pound in ex- 
change — not one of them had silver enough ; and as for a 
five-pound note, which I presented at one of the topping book- 
seller's, his boy went round to various places in vain, and finally 
set forth to the Bank, where change was got. In another small 
shop I offered half a crown to pa}' for a sixpenny article — it 
was all the same. "Tim," says the good woman, "run out 
in a hurry and fel^ch the gentleman change." Two of the shop- 
men, seeing an Englishman, were very particular to tell me in 
what years they themselves had been in London. It seemed a 
merit in these gentlemen's eyes to have once dwelt in that city ; 
and I see in the papers continuall}' ladies advertising as gov- 
ernesses, and specifying particular!}' that the}^ are " English 
ladies." 

I received six 5/. post-oflSce orders ; I called four times on 
as many different da3's at the Post Office before the capital 
could be forthcoming, getting on the third application 201. 
(after making a great clamor, and vowing that such things were 
unheard-of in England) , and on the fourth call the remaining 
10/. I saw poor people, who may have come from the country 
with their orders, refused payment of an order of some 40s. ; 
and a gentleman who tendered a pound-note in payment of a 
foreign letter, w^as told to ' ' leave his letter and pay some other 
time." Such things could not take place in the hundred-and- 
second city in England ; and as I do not pretend to doctrinize 
at all, I leave the reader to draw his own deductions with regard 
to the commercial condition and prosperity of the second city 
in Ireland. 

Half a dozen of the public buildings I saw were spacions 
and shabby beyond all cockney belief. Adjoining the " Im- 
perial Hotel" is a great, large, handsome, desolate reading- 
room, which was founded by a body of Cork merchants and 
tradesmen, and is the very picture of decay. Not Palmj-ra — 
not the Russell Institution in Great Coram Street — presents a 
more melancholy appearance of faded greatness. Opposite this 
is another institution called the Cork Library, where there are 
plenty of books and plent}^ of kindness to the stranger ; but the 
shabbiness and faded splendor of the place are quite painful. 
There are three handsome Catholic churches commenced of late 



72 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

years ; not one of them is complete : two want their porticos ; 
the other is not more than thirty feet from the ground, and 
according to the architectural plan was to rise as high as a 
cathedral. There is an Institution, with a fair library of 
scientific works, a museum, and a drawing-school with a 
suppl}' of casts. The place is in yet more dismal condition 
than the Library : the plasters are spoiled incurably for want 
of a sixpenny feather- brush ; the dust lies on the walls, and 
nobody seems to heed it. Two shillings a year would have 
repaired much of the evil which has happened to this institu- 
tion ; and it is folly to talk of inward dissensions and political 
differences as causing the ruin of such institutions : kings or 
law don't cause or cure dust and cobwebs, but* indolence leaves 
them to accumulate, and imprudence will not calculate its 
income, and vanity exaggerates its own powers, and the fault 
is laid upon that tyrant of a sister kingdom. The whole 
country is filled with such failures ; swaggering beginnings 
that could not be carried through ; grand enterprises begun 
dashingly, and ending in shabby compromises or downright 
ruin. 

I have said something in praise of the manners of the Cork 
ladies : in regard of the gentlemen, a stranger too must remark 
the extraordinary degree of literary taste and talent amongst 
them, and the wit and vivacity of their conversation. The love 
for literature seems to an Englishman doubly curious. What, 
generally speaking, do a company of grave gentlemen and ladies 
in Baker Street know about it? Who ever reads books in the 
City, or how often does one hear them talked about at a Club? 
The Cork citizens are the most book-loving men I ever met. 
The town has sent to England a number of literary men, of 
reputation too, and is not a little proud of their fame. Every- 
body seemed to know what Maginn was doing, and that Father 
Prout had a third volume ready, and what was Mr. Croker's 
last article in the Quarterly. The young clerks and shopmen 
seemed as much au fait as their employers, and many is the 
conversation I heard about the merits of this writer or*^that — 
Dickens, Ainsworth, Lover, Lever. 

I think, in walking the streets, and looking at the ragged 
urchins crowding there, every Englishman must remark that 
the superiority of intelligence is here, and not with us. I never 
saw such a collection of bright-eyed, wild, clever, eager faces. 
Mr. Maclise has carried away a number of them in his memory ; 
and the lovers of his admirable pictures will find more than one 
Munster countenance under a helmet in company of Macbeth, 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 73 

or in a slashed doublet alongside of Prince Hamlet, or in the 
very midst of Spain in company with Seiior Gil Bias. Gil 
Bias himself came from Cork, and not from Oviedo. 

I listened to two boj's almost in rags : they were lolling over 
the quay balustrade, and talking about one of the Ptolemy s ! and 
talking very well too. One of them had been reading in " Rol- 
lin," and was detailing his information with a great deal of 
eloquence and fire. Another day, walking in the Mardyke, I 
followed three boys, not half so well dressed as London errand- 
bo3's : one was telling the other about Captain Ross's voyages, 
and spoke with as much brightness and intelligence as the best- 
read gentleman's son in England could do. He was as much 
of a gentleman too, the ragged young student ; his manner as 
good, though perhaps more eager and emphatic ; his language 
was extremely rich, too, and eloquent. Does the reader remem- 
ber his school-daj's, when half a dozen lads in the bedrooms 
took it by turns to tell stories ? how poor the language generally 
was, and how exceeding!}' poor the imagination ! Both of those 
ragged Irish lads had the making of gentlemen, scholars, orators, 
in them. Apropos of love of reading, let me mention here a 
Dublin story. Dr. Lever, the celebrated author of " Hany Lor- 
requer," went into Dycer's stables to bu}^ a horse. The groom 
who brought the animal out, directly he heard who the gentle- 
man was, came out and touched his cap, and pointed to a little 
])ook in his pocket in a pink cover. " 1 can't do without it^ sir^** 
says the man. It was '' Harry Lorrequer." I wonder does any 
one of Mr. Rymell's grooms take in "Pickwick," or would they 
have any curiosity to see Mr. Dickens, should he pass that 
way? 

The Corkagians are eager for a Munster Universit}^ ; asking 
for, and having a very good right to, the same privilege which 
has been granted to the chief city of the North of Ireland. It 
would not fail of being a great benefit to the city and to the 
country- too, which would have no need to go so far as Dublin 
for a school of letters and medicine ; nor. Whig and Catholic 
for the most part, to attend a Tor}" and Protestant University. 
The establishing of an open college in Munster would bring 
much popularity to any Ministry that should accord such a 
boon. People would cry out, " Popery and Infidelity," doubt- 
less, as they did when the London University was established ; 
as the same party in Spain would cry out, "Atheism and 
Heresy." But the time, thank God ! is gone by in England 
when it was necessary to legislate for them ; anei. Sir Robert 
Peel, in giving his adherence to the National Education scheme, 



74 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

has sanctioned the principle of which this so much longed-for 
college would only be a consequence. 

The medical charities and hospitals are said to be very well 
arranged, and the medical men of far more than ordinary skill. 
Other public institutions are no less excellent. I was taken 
over the Lunatic Asylum, where everything was conducted with 
admirable comfort, cleanliness, and kindness ; and as for the 
county gaol, it is so neat, spacious, and comfortable, that we 
can only pray to see every cottager in the country as cleanly, 
well lodged, and well fed as the convicts are. They get a pound 
of bread and a pint of milk twice a day : there must be milUons 
of people in this wretched countr}^ to whom such food would 
be a luxury that their utmost labors can never by possibility 
procure for them ; and in going over this admirable institution, 
where everybody is cleanly, healthy, and well-clad, I could not 
but think of the rags and filth of the horrid starvation market 
before mentioned ; so that the prison seemed almost a sort of 
premium for vice. But the people like their freedom, such as 
it is, and prefer to starve and be ragged as they hst. They 
will not go to the poor-houses, except at the greatest extremity, 
and leave them on the slightest chance of existence elsewhere. 

Walking away from this palace of a prison, 3'ou pass amidst 
all sorts of delightful verdure, cheerful gardens, and broad 
green luscious pastures, down to the beautiful River Lee. On 
one side, the river shines away towards the city with its towers 
and purple steeples ; on the other it is broken by little water- 
falls and bound in by blue hills, an old castle towering in the 
distance, and innumerable parks and villas lying along the 
pleasant wooded banks. How beautiful the scene is, how rich 
and how happy ! Yonder, in the old Mardyke Avenue, you 
hear the voices of a score of children, and along the bright 
green meadows, where the cows are feeding, the gentle shadows 
of the clouds go playing over the grass. Who can look at such 
a charming scene but with a thankful swelling heart? 

In the midst of your pleasure, three beggars have hobbled 
up, and are howling supplications to the Lord. One is old and 
blind, and so diseased and hideous, that straightway all the 
pleasure of the sight round about vanishes from you — that 
livid ghastly face interposing between you and it. And so it 
is throughout the south and west of Ireland ; the traveller 
is haunted by the face of the popular starvation. It is not the 
exception, it is the condition of the people. In this fairest 
and richest of countries, men are suffering and starving by 
millions. There are thousands of them at this minute stretched 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 75 

in the sunshine at their cabin doors with no work, scarcely 
any food, no hope seemingly. Strong countrymen are lying 
in bed "/or the hunger'' — because a man lying on his back 
does not need so much food as a person afoot. Many of 
them have torn up the unripe potatoes from their little gar- 
dens, to exist now, and must look to winter, when they 
shall have to suffer starvation and cold too. The epicurean, 
and traveller for pleasure, had better travel an}^ where than here : 
where there are miseries that one does not dare to think of; 
where one is always feeling how helpless pity is, and how hope- 
less relief, and is perpetually made ashamed of being happy. 

I have just been strolling up a pretty little height called 
Grattan's Hill, that overlooks the town and the river, and where 
the artist that comes Cork-wards may find many subjects for 
his pencil. There is a kind of pleasure-ground at the top of 
this eminence — a broad walk that draggles up to a ruined wall, 
with a ruined niche in it, and a battered stone bench. On the 
side that shelves down to the water are some beeches, and 
opposite them a row of houses from which 3^ou see one of the 
prettiest prospects possible — the shining river with the craft 
along the quays, and the busj' cit}^ in the distance, the active 
little steamers puffing away towards Cove, the farther bank 
crowned with rich woods, and pleasant-looking country-houses : 
perhaps they are tumbhng, rickety and ruinous, as those houses 
close by us, but 3'ou can't see the ruin from here. 

What a strange air of forlorn gayet}^ there is about the 
place ! — the sky itself seems as if it did not know whether to 
laugh or cry, so full is it of clouds and sunshine. Little fat, 
ragged, smiling children are clambering about the rocks, and 
sitting on moss}- door-steps, tending other children yet smaller, 
fatter, and more dirty. "Stop till I get j^ou a posy" (pro- 
nounced pawawaivsee) , cries one urchin to another. " Tell me 
who is it ye love, Jooly?" exclaims another, cuddling a red- 
faced infant with a ver}^ dirty nose. More of the same race 
are perched about the summer-house, and two wenches with 
large purple feet are flapping some carpets in the air. It is a 
wonder the carpets will bear this kind of treatment at all, and 
do not be off at once to mingle with the elements : I never saw 
things that hung to life by such a frail thread. 

This dismal pleasant place is a suburb of the second city in Ire- 
land, and one of the most beautiful spots about the town. What 
a prim, bustling, active, green-raihnged, tea-gardened, gravel- 
walked place would it have been in the five-hundredth town in 



76 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

England ! — but jou see the people can be quite as happy in the 
rags and without the paint, and I hear a great deal more hearti- 
ness and affection from these children than from their fat little 
brethren across the Channel. 

If a man wanted to study ruins, here is a house close at 
hand, not fort}' years old no doubt, but j^et as completel}^ gone 
to wreck as Netley Abbey. It is quite curious to stud}^ that 
house ; and a pretty ruinous fabric of improvidence, extrava- 
gance, happiness, and disaster may the imagination build out 
of it ! In the first place, the owners did not wait to finish it 
before they went to inhabit it ! This is written in just such 
another place ; — a handsome drawing-room with a good carpet, 
a lofty marble mantel-piece, and no paper to the walls. The 
door is prettity painted white and blue, and though not six 
weeks old, a great piece of the wood- work is off alread}- (Peggy 
uses it to prevent the door from banging to) ; and there are 
some fine chinks in ever}^ one of the panels, by which my 
neighbor may see all my doings. 

A couple of score of years, and this house will be just like 
3'onder place on Grattan's Hill. 

Like a 3'oung prodigal, the house begins to use its constitu- 
tion too early ; and when it should yet (in the shape of carpen- 
ters and painters) have all its masters and guardians to watch 
and educate it, m}' house on Grattan's Hill must be a man at 
once, and enjo}' all the privileges of strong health ! I would 
la}' a guinea they were making punch in that house before they 
could keep the rain out of it ! that they had a dinner-party and 
ball before the floors were firm or the wainscots painted, and 
a fine tester-bed in the best room, where my lady might catch 
cold in state, in the midst of 3'awning chimneys, creaking 
window-sashes, and smoking plaster. 

Now look at the door of the coach-house, with its first coat 
of paint seen yet, and a variety of patches to keep the feeble 
barrier together. The loft was arched once, but a great corner 
has tumbled at one end, leaving a gash that unites the windows 
with the coach-house door. Several of the arch-stones are 
removed, and the whole edifice is about as rambling and dis- 
orderly' as — as the arrangement of this book, saj'. Very tall 
tufts of mould}' moss are on the drawing-room windows, with 
long white heads of grass. As I am sketching this — honk! — 
a great lean sow comes trampling through the slush within the 
court-yard, breaks down the flimsy apparatus of rattling boards 
and stones which had passed for the gate, and walks with her 
seven squeaking little ones to disport on the grass on the hill. 



THE iiUSII feKKTCll BOOK. 77 

The drawing-room of the tenement mentioned just now, 
with its pictures, and pulley less windows and lockless doors, 
was tenanted b}^ a friend who lodged there with a sick wife 
and a couple of little children ; one of whom was an infant in 
arms. It is not, however, the lodger — who is an Englishman 
— but the kind landlady and her family who may well be de- 
scribed here — for their lilve are hardly to be found on the other 
side of the Channel. Mrs. Fagan is a young widow who has 
seen better days, and that portrait over the grand mantel-piece 
is the picture of her husband that is gone, a handsome 3'oung 
man, and well to do at one time as a merchant. But the 
widow (she is as prett}', as lady-like, as kind, and as neat as 
ever widow could be,) has little left to live upon but the rent 
of her lodgings and her furniture ; of which we have seen the 
best in the drawing-room. 

She has three fine children of her own : there is Minny, and 
Katey, and Patsey, and they occupj^ indifferently the dining- 
room on the ground-floor or the kitchen opposite ; where in 
the midst of a great smoke sits an old nurse, by a copper of 
potatoes which is always bubbUng and full. Patsey swallows 
quantities of them, that's clear : his cheeks are as red and shin- 
ing as apples, and when he roars, 3'ou are sure that his lungs 
are in the finest condition. Next door to the kitchen is the 
pantry, and there is a bucketful of the before-mentioned fruit 
and a grand service of china for dinner and dessert. The 
kind young widow shows them with no little pride, and says 
with reason that there are few lodging-houses in Cork that can 
match such china as that. They are relics of the happy old 
times when Fagan kept his gig and horse, doubtless, and liad 
his friends to dine — the happy prosperous days which she 
has exchanged for poverty and the sad black gown. 

Patsey, Minny, and Katey have made friends with the little 
English people up stairs ; the elder of whom, in the course of 
a month, has as fine a Munster brogue as ever trolled over the 
lips of any born Corkagian. The old nurse carries out the 
whole united party to walk, with the exception of the English 
baby, that jumps about in the arms of a countrywoman of her 
own. That is, unless one of the four Miss Fagans takes her ; 
for four of them there are, four other Miss Fagans, from eigh- 
teen downwards to fourteen : — handsome, fresh, lively, dancing, 
bouncing girls. You may always see two or three of them 
smiling at the parlor-window, and they laugh and turn away 
their heads when any young fellow looks and admires them. 

Now it stands to reason that a young widow of five-and- 



78 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

twenty can't be the mother of four 3'Onng ladies of eighteen 
downwards ; and, if anj^body wants to know how they come 
to be living with the poor widow their cousin, the answer is, 
they are on a visit. Peggy the maid says their papa is a 
gentleman of property, and can "spend his eight hundred ti 
3'ear." 

Why don't they remain with the old gentleman then, instead 
of quartering on the poor 3'oung widow, who has her own little 
mouths to feed? The reason is, the old gentleman has gone 
and married his cook ; and the daughters have quitted him in a 
body, refusing to sit down to dinner with a person who ought 
by rights to be in the kitchen. The whole family (the Fagans 
are of good famil}^) take the quarrel up, and here are the 3'oung 
people under shelter of the widow. 

Four merrier tender-hearted girls are not to be found in all 
Ireland ; and the onl3' subject of contention amongst them is, 
which shall have the English baby : the3' are nursing it, and 
singing to it, and dandling it by turns all day long. When 
they are not singing to the bab3', the3^ are singing to an old 
piano : such an old wir3^, jingling, wheez3' piano ! It has plenty 
of work, playing jigs and song accompaniments between meals, 
and acting as a sideboard at dinner. I am not sure that it 
is at rest at night either ; but have a shrewd suspicion that it is 
turned into a four-post bed. And for the following reason : — 

Every afternoon, at four o'clock, 3^ou see a tall old gentle- 
man walking leisurely to the house. He is dressed in a long 
great-coat with huge pockets, and in the huge pockets are sure 
to be some big apples for all the children — the English child 
amongst the rest, and she generally has the biggest one. At 
seven o'clock, you are sure to hear a deep voice shouting 
' ' Paggt ! " in an awful tone — it is the old gentleman calling 
for his ' ' materials ; " which Peggy brings without an3' farther 
ado ; and a glass of punch is made, no doubt, for everybod3\ 
Then the part3^ separates : the children and the old nurse have 
long since trampled up stairs ; Peggy has the kitchen for her 
sleeping apartment, and the four young ladies make it out 
somehow in the back drawing-room. As for the old gentle- 
man, he reposes in the parlor ; and it must be somewhere about 
the piano, for there is no furniture in the room except that, 
a table, a few old chairs, a work-box, and a couple of albums. 

The English girl's father met her in the street one day, 
talking confidentially with a tall old gentleman in a great-coat. 
"Who's 3'our friend?" says the Englishman afterwards to the 
little girl. "Don't you know him, papa?" said the child in 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 79 

the purest brogue. "Don't you know him? — That's Uncle 
James ! " And so it was : in this kind, poor, generous, bare- 
backed house, the English child found a set of new relations ; 
little rosy brothers and sisters to play with, kind women to 
take the place of the almost dying mother, a good old Uncle 
James to bring her home apples and care for her — one and 
all ready to share their little pittance with her, and to give her a 
place in their simple friendl}^ hearts. God Almighty bless the 
widow and her mite, and all the kind souls under her roof! 

How much goodness and generosit}^ — how much purity, 
fine feeling — nay, happiness — ma}^ dwell amongst the poor 
whom we have been just looking at ! Here, thank God, is an 
instance of this happy and cheerful poverty : and it is good to 
look, when one can, at the heart that beats under the thread- 
bare coat, as well as the tattered old garment itself. Well, 
please heaven, some of those people whom we have been look- 
ing at, are as good, and not much less happy : but though they 
are accustomed to their want, the stranger does not reconcile 
himself to it quickly ; and I hope no Irish reader will be of- 
fended at my speaking of this povert}^, not with scorn or ill- 
feeling, but with hearty sympathy and good-will. 



One' word more regarding the Widow Pagan's house. When 
Pegg}' brought in coals for the drawing-room fire, she carried 
them — in what do 3^ou think? " In a coal-scuttle, to be sure," 
says the English reader, down on you as sharp as a needle. 

No, 3^ou clever Englishman, it wasn't a coal-scuttle. 

" Well, then, it was in a fire-shovel," says that brightest of 
wits, guessing again. 

No, it wasn't a fire-shovel, 3''ou heaven-born genius ; and 
you might guess from this until Mrs. Snooks called you up to 
coffee, and you would never find out. It was in something 
which I have alread}^ described in Mrs. Pagan's pantr}^ 

" Oh, I have you now, it was the bucket where the potatoes 
were ; the thlatternty wetch ! " says Snooks. 

Wrong again! Peggy brought up the coals — in a china 

PLATE ! 

Snooks turns quite white with surprise and almost chokes 
himself with his port. "Well," says he, "of all the wum 
countwith that I ever wead of, hang me if Ireland ithn't the 
wummetht. Coalth in a plate! Mawyann, do 3'ou hear that? 
In Ireland they alwayth thend up their coalth in a plate ! " 



80 THE IRISH yivETCH BOOK. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

FROM CORK TO BANTRY ; WITH AN ACCOUNT OP THE CITY OF 
SKIBBEREEN. 

' That light four-inside, four-horse coach, the " Skibbereen 
Perseverance," brought me fifty-two miles to-daj', for the sum 
of three-and-sixpence, through a country which is, as usual, 
somewhat difficult to describe. We issued out of Cork by the 
western road, in which, as the Guide-book says, there is some- 
thing verj' imposing. " The magnificence of the county court- 
house, the extent, solidit}", and characteristic sternness of the 
county gaol," were A'isible to us for a few minutes ; when, turn- 
ing away southward from the pleasant banks of the stream, the 
road took us towards Bandon, through a country that is bare 
and ragged-looking, but yet green and pretty ; and it alwa3's 
seems to me, like the people, to look cheerful in spite of its 
wretchedness, or, more correctly, to look tearful and cheerful 
at the same time. 

The coach, like almost every other public vehicle I have 
seen in Ireland, was full to the brim and over it. What can 
send these restless people travelhng and hurr3ing about from 
place to place as they do ? I have heard one or two gentlemen 
hint that they had ' ' business " at this place or that ; and found 
afterwards that one was going a couple of score of miles to 
look at a mare, another to examine a setter-dog, and so on. 
I did not make it m}^ business to ask on what errand the gen- 
tlemen on the coach were bound ; though two of them, seeing 
an Englishman, very good-naturedl}^ began chalking out a route 
for him to take,, and showing a sort of interest in his aff'airs 
which is not with us generally exhibited. The coach, too, 
seemed to have the elastic hospitalit}' of some Irish houses ; it 
accommodated an almost impossible number. For the greater 
part of the journey the httle guard sat on the roof among the 
carpet-bags, holding in one hand a huge tambour-frame, in the 
other a band-box marked " Foggarty, Hatter." (A¥hat is 
there more ridiculous in the name of Foggart}- than in that of 
Smith? and 3^et, had Smith been the name, I never should 
have laughed at or remarked it). Present^ by his side clam- 
bered a green-coated policeman with his carbine, and we had a 
talk about the vitriol-throwers at Cork, and the sentence just 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 81 

passed upon them. The populace has decidedly taken part 
with the vitriol-throwers : parties of dragoons were obliged to 
surround the avenues of the court ; and the judge who sen- 
tenced them was abused as he entered his carriage, and called 
an old villain, and man}' other opprobious names. 

This case the reader ver}' likel}^ remembers. A saw-mill 
was established at Cork, by which some four hundred saw3'ers 
were thrown out of employ. In order to deter the proprietors 
of this and all other mills from using such instruments further, 
the sawyers determined to execute a terrible vengeance, and 
cast lots among themselves which of their body should fling 
vitriol into the faces of the mill-owners. The men who were 
chosen by the lot were to execute this horrible office on pain 
of death,' and did so, — frightfully burning and blinding one of 
the gentlemen owning the mill. Great rewards were offered 
for the apprehension of the criminals, and at last one of their 
own body came forward as an approver, and the four principal 
actors in this dreadful outrage were sentenced to be transported 
for life. Crowds of the ragged admirers of these men were 
standing round "the magnificent county court-house" as we 
passed the building. Ours is a strange life indeed. What a 
history of poverty and barbarity, and crime and even kindness, 
was that by which we passed before the magnificent county 
court-house at eight miles an hour ! What a chapter might a 
philosopher write on them ! Look 3'onder at those two hundred 
ragged fellow-subjects of 3^ours : they are kind, good, pious, 
brutal, starving. If the priest tells them, there is scarce any 
penance they will not perform ; there is scared}^ an}' pitch of 
misery which the}- have not been known to endure, nor any 
degree of generosit}- of which thej' are not capable : but if a 
man comes among these people, and can afford to take land 
over their heads, or if he invents a machine which can work 
more economicall}' than their labor, they will shoot the man 
down without mere}', murder him, or put him to horrible tor- 
tures, and glorj' almost in what the}' do. There stand the men ; 
they are only separated from us by a few paces : they are as 
fond of their mothers and children as we are ; their gratitude 
for small kindnesses shown to them is extraordinary ; they are 
Christians as we are ; but interfere with their interests, and 
they will murder you without pity. 

It is not revenge so much which these poor fellows take, as 
a brutal justice of their own. Now, will it seem a paradox to 
say, in regard to them and their murderous system, that the 
way to put an end to the latter is to kill them no more 1 Let the 

(; 



82 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

priest be able to go amongst them and "say, The law holds a 
man's life so sacred that it will on no account take it away. No 
man, nor body of men, has a right to meddle with human life : 
not the Commons of England any more than the Commons of 
Tipperary. This may cost two or three lives, probably, until 
such time as the system may come to be known and under- 
stood ; but which will be the greatest econora}^ of blood in the 
end? 

By this time the \'itriol-men were long passed away, and we 
began next to talk about the Cork and London steamboats ; 
which are made to pa}', on account of the number of paupers 
whom the boats bring over from London at the charge of tha,t 
city. The passengers found here, as in everything else almost 
which I have seen as yet, another instance of the injury which 
England inflicts on them. " As long as these men are strong 
and can work," says one, " you keep them ; when they are in 
bad health, you fling them upon us." Nor could I convince him 
that the agricultural gentlemen were perfectly free to stay at home 
if they liked : that we did for them what was done for English 
paupers — sent them, namely, as far as possible on the way to 
their parishes ; na}^ that some of them (aa- I have seen with 
my own eyes) actually saved a bit of money during the harvest, 
and took this cheap way of conveying it and themselves to their 
homes again. But nothing would convince the gentleman that 
there was not some wicked scheming on the part of the English 
in the business ; and, indeed, I find upon almost every other 
subject a peevish and puerile suspiciousness which is worthy of 
France itself. 

By this time we came to a pretty village called Innishannon, 
upon the noble banks of the Bandon river ; leading for three 
miles by a great number of pleasant gentlemen's seats to Ban- 
don town. A good number of large mills were on the banks 
of the stream ; and the chief part of them, as in Carlow, use- 
less. One mill we saw was too small for the owner's great 
speculations ; and so he built another and larger one : the big 
mill cost him 10,000/., for which his brothers went security; 
and, a lawsuit being given against the mill-owner, the two mills 
stopped, the two brothers went off, and yon fine old house, in 
tlie st3^1e of Anne, with terraces and tall chimneys — one of the 
oldest country-houses I have seen in Ireland — is now inhab- 
ited by the natural son of the mill-owner, who has more such 
interesting progeny. Then we came to a tall, comfortable 
house, in a plantation ; opposite to which was a stone castle, 
in its shrubberies on the other side of the road. The tall house 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 83 

in the plantation shot the opposite side of the roaa in a duel, 
and nearl}^ killed him ; on which the opposite side of the road 
built this castle, in order to plague the tall house. The}' are 
good friends now ; but the opposite side of the road ruined 
himself in building his house. I asked, "Is the house fin- 
ished?" — " ^ good deal of it is" was the answer. — And then 
we came to a brewer}^, about which was a similar story of 
extravagance and ruin ; but, whether before or after entering 
Bandon, does not matter. 

We did not, it appears, pass through the best part of Ban- 
don : I looked along one side of the houses in the long street 
through which we went, to see if there was a window without 
a broken pane of glass, and can declare on ni}^ conscience that 
ever}' single window had three broken panes. There we changed 
horses, in a market-place, surrounded, as usual, b}^ beggars ; 
then we passed through a suburb still more wretched and ruin- 
ous than the first street, and which, in ver}' large letters, is 
called DOYLE street : and the next stage was at a place called 
Dunmanwa}'. 

Here it was market-day, too, and, as usual, no lack of at- 
tendants : swarms of peasants in their blue cloaks, squatting 
by their stalls here and there. There is a little miserable old 
market-house, where a few women were selling buttermilk ; an- 
other, bullocks' hearts, liver, and such like scraps of meat ; 
another had dried mackerel on a board ; and plent}' of people 
huckstering of course. Round the coach came crowds of rag- 
ger}', and blackguards fawning for money. I wonder who gives 
them an}' ! I have never seen any one give yet ; and were 
they not even so numerous that it would be impossible to gratify 
them all, there is something in their cant and supplications 
to the Lord so disgusting to me, that I could not give a half- 
penny. 

In regard of pretty faces, male or female, this road is very 
unfavorable. I have not seen one for fifty miles ; though, as 
it was market-day all along the road, we have had the oppor- 
tunity to examine vast numbers of countenances. The women 
are, for the most part, stunted, short, with flat Tartar faces ; 
and the men no handsomer. Every woman has bare legs, of 
course ; and as the weather is fine, they are sitting outside their 
cabins, with the pig, and the geese, and the children sporting 
around. 

Before many doors we saw a little flock of these useful ani- 
mals, and the family pig almost everywhere : you might see 
him browsing and poking along the hedges, his fore and Mad 



84 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

leg attached with a wisp of hay to check his propensity to 
roaming. Here and there were a small brood of turkeys ; now 
and then a couple of sheep or a single one grazing upon a 
scanty field, of which the chief crop seemed to be thistles and 
stone ; and, by the side of the cottage, the potato-field alwa^'s. 

The character of the landscape for the most part is bare and 
sad ; except here and there in the neighborhood of the towns, 
where people have taken a fancy to plant, and where nature has 
helped them, as it almost always will in this countr3\ If we 
saw a field with a good hedge to it, we were sure to see a good 
crop inside. Many a field was there that had neither crop nor 
hedge. We passed b}^ and over many prett}^ streams, running 
bright through brilUant emerald meadows : and I saw a thou- 
sand charming pictures, which want as yet an Irish Berghem. 
A bright road winding up a hill ; on it a country cart, with its 
load, stretching a huge shadow ; the before-mentioned emerald 
pastures and silver rivers in the foreground ; a noble sweep of 
hills rising up from them, and contrasting their magnificent 
purple with the green ; in the extreme distance the clear cold 
outline of some far-off mountains, and the white clouds tumbled 
about in the blue sk}' overhead. It has no doubt struck all 
persons who love to look at nature, how different the skies are 
in diflferent countries. I fancy Irish or French clouds are as 
characteristic as Irish or French landscapes. It would be well 
to have a daguerreotj'pe and get a series of each. Some way 
beyond Dunmanway the road takes us through a noble savage 
country of rocks and heath. Nor must the painter forget long 
black tracts of bog here and there, and the water glistening 
brightl}' at the places where the turf has been cut away. Add 
to tliis, and chiefly b}^ the banks of rivers, a ruined old castle 
or two : some were built by the Danes, it is said. The O'Con- 
nors, the O'Mahonys, the O'Driscolls were lords of many others, 
and their ruined towers ma}" be seen here and along the sea. 

Near Dunmanway that great coach, "The Skibbereen In- 
dustrj'," dashed by us at seven miles an hour ; a wondrous 
vehicle ; there were gaps between ever}' one of the panels ; 3'ou 
could see daylight through-and-through it. Like our machine, 
it was full, with three complementar}' sailors on the roof, as 
little harness as possible to the horses, and as long stages as 
horses can well endure : ours were each eighteen-mile stages. 
About eight miles from Skibbereen a one-horse car met us, and 
carried away an offshoot of passengers to Bantry. Five pas- 
sengers and their luggage, and a very wild, steep road : all this 
had one poor little pon}" to overcome ! About the towns there 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 85 

were some show of gentlemen's cars, smart and well appointed, 
and on the road great numbers of countr}- carts : an army of 
them met us coming from Skibbereen, and laden with gray sand 
for manure. 

Before 3'ou enter the cit}^ of Skibbereen, the tall new poor- 
house presents itself to the eye of the traveller ; of the common 
model, being a bastard-Gothic edifice, with a profusion of cot- 
tage-ornee (is cottage masculine or feminine in French?) — of 
cottage-ornee roofs, and pinnacles, and insolent-looking stacks 
of chimneys. It is built for 900 people, but as yet not more 
than 400 have been induced to live in it ; the beggars preferring 
the freedom of their precarious trade to the dismal certainty 
within its walls. Next we come to the chapel, a very large, 
respectable-looking building of dark-gray stone ; and presentl}', 
behold, by the crowd of blackguards in waiting, "The Skib- 
bereen Perseverance " has found its goal, and you are inducted 
to the " hotel" opposite. 

Some gentlemen were at the coach, besides those of lower 
degree. Here was a fat fellow v/ith large whiskers, a geranium, 
and a cigar ; yonder a tall handsome old man that I would 
swear was a dragoon on half-pay. He had a little cap, a Tag- 
lioni coat, a pair of beautiful spaniels, and a pair of knee- 
breeches which showed a very handsome old leg ; and his object 
seemed to be to invite everybody to dinner as they got off the 
coach. No doubt he has seen the ' ' Skibbereen Perseverance " 
come in ever since it was a "Perseverance." It is wonderful 
to think what will interest men in prisons or countrj^ towns ! 

There is a dirt}' coffee-room, with a strong smell of whiskey ; 
indeed three j^oung "materialists" are employed at the mo- 
ment: and I hereby beg to offer an apology to three other 
gentlemen — the captain, another, and the gentleman of the 
geranium, who had caught hold of a sketching-stool which is 
my property, and were stretching it, and sitting upon it, and 
wondering, and talking of it, when the owner came in, and they 
bounced off to their seats like so many school-boys. Dirty as 
the place was, this was no reason why it should not produce an 
exuberant dinner of trout and Kerry mutton ; after which Dan 
the waiter, holding up a dingy decanter, asks how much whiskey 
I'd have. 

That calculation need not be made here ; and if a man sleeps 
well, has he any need to quarrel with the appointments of his 
bedroom, and spy out the deficiencies of the land? As it was 
Sunday, it was impossible for me to say what sort of shops 
"the active and flourishing town" of Skibbereen contains. 



86 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

There were some of the architectural sort, viz. with gilt letters 
and cracked mouldings, and others into which I thought I saw 
the cows walking ; but it was only into their little cribs and 
paddocks at the back of the shops. There is a trim Wesle3'an 
chapel, without smy broken windows ; a neat church stancling 
modestly on one side. The Lower Street crawls along the 
river to a considerable extent, having by-streets and boulevards 
of cabins here and there. 

The people came flock'ing into the place by hundreds, and 
you saw their blue cloaks dotting the road and the bare open 
plains beyond. The men came with shoes and stockings to-da}-, 
the women all barelegged, and many of them might be seen 
washing their feet in the stream before the}^ went up to the 
chapel. The street seemed to be lined on either side with blue 
cloaks, squatting along the doorwa3's as is their wont. Among 
these, numberless cows were walking to and fro, and pails of 
milk passing, and here and there a hound or two went stalk- 
ing about. Dan the waiter sa3's they are hunted by the hand- 
some old captain who was yesterday inviting everybod}^ to 
dinner. 

Anybody at eight o'clock of a Sunday morning in summer 
may behold the above scene from a bridge just outside the town. 
He may add to it the river, with one or two barges lying idle 
upon it ; a flag flying at what looks like a custom-house ; bare 
countr}^ all around ; and the chapel before him, with a swarm 
of the dark figures round about it. 

I went into it, not without awe (for, as I confessed before, 
I always feel a sort of tremor on going into a Catholic place of 
worship: the candles, and altars, and mysteries, the priest and 
his robes, and nasal chanting, and wonderful genuflexions, 
will frighten me as long as I live) . The chapel-yard was filled 
with men and women ; a couple of shabb}^ old beadles were at 
the gate with copper shovels to collect money ; and inside the 
chapel four or five hundred people were on their knees, and 
scores more of the blue-mantles came in, dropping their curt- 
sies as they entered, and then taking their places on the flags. 

And now the pangs of hunger beginning to make themselves 
felt, it became necessary for your humble servant (after making 
several useless applications to a bell, which properl}- declined 
to work on Sundays) to make a personal descent to the inn- 
kitchen, where was not a bad study for a painter. It was a 
huge room, with a peat fire burning, and a staircase walking up 
one side of it, on which stair was a damsel in a partial though 
by no means picturesque dishabille. The cook had just come in 



THE IK It'll SKETCH BOOK. 87 

with a great frothing pail of milk, and sat with her arms folded ; 
the ostler's boy sat dangling his legs from the table ; the ostler 
was dandhng a noble little boy of a year old, at whom Mrs. 
Cook likewise grinned dehghted. Here, too, sat Mr. Dan the 
waiter ; and no wonder the breakfast was dela3'ed, for all three 
of these worthy domestics seemed delighted with the infant. 

He was handed over to the gentleman's arms for the space 
of thirty seconds ; the gentleman being the father of a family, 
and of course an amateur. 

" Say Dan for the gentleman," says the delighted cook. 

" Dada," says the baby ; at which the assembly grinned with 
joy: and Dan promised I should have my breakfast " in a 
hurry." 

But of all the wonderful things to be seen in Skibbereen, 
Dan's pantr}^ is the most wonderful : every article within is a 
makeshift, and has been ingeniously perverted from its original 
destination. Here lie bread, blacking, fresh butter, tallow- 
candles, dirty knives — all in the same cigar-box with snuff, 
milk, cold bacon, brown sugar, broken teacups, and bits of soap. 
No pen can describe that establishment, as no English imagina- 
tion could have conceived it. But lo ! the sky has cleared after 
A furious fall of rain — (in compliance with Dan's statement to 
that effect, " that the weather would be fine") — and a car is 
waiting to carry us to Loughine. 

Although the description of Loughine can make but a poor 
figure in a book, the ride thither is well worth the traveller's 
short labor. You pass by one of the cabin-streets out of the 
town into a country which for a mile is rich with grain, though 
^are of trees ; then through a boggy bleak district, from which 
you enter into a sort of sea of rocks, with patches of herbage 
here and there. Before the traveller, almost all the w^ay, is 
a huge pile of purple mountain, on which, as one comes nearer, 
one perceives numberless waves and breaks, as you see small 
waves on a billow in the sea ; then clambering up a hill, we look 
down upon a bright green flat of land, with the lake beyond 
it, girt round b}^ gi*ay melancholy hills. The water may be 
a mile in extent ; a cabin tops the mountain here and there ; 
gentlemen have erected one or two anchorite pleasure-houses on 
the banks, as cheerful as a summer-house would be on Salisbury 
Plain. I felt not sorry to have seen this lonely lake, and still 
happier to leave it. There it lies with crags all round it, in the 
midst of desolate plains : it escapes somewhere to the sea ; its 
waters are salt : half a dozen boats lie here and there upon its 
banks, and we saw a small crew of boys plashing about and 



88 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

swimming in it, laughing and yelling. It seemed a shame to 
disturb the silence so. 

The crowd of swaggering ' ' gents " (I don't know the corre- 
sponding phrase in the Anglo-Irish vocabulary to express a 
shabby dandy) awaiting the Cork mail, which kindly goes 
twenty miles out of its way to accommodate the town of Skib- 
bereen, was quite extraordinar3^ The little street was quite 
blocked up with shabby gentlemen, and shabb}' beggars, await- 
ing this daily phenomenon. The man who had driven us to 
Loiighine did not fail to ask for his fee as driver; and then, 
having received it, came forward in his capacit}^ of boots and 
received another remuneration. The ride is desolate, bare, 
and yet beautiful. There are a set of hills that keep one com- 
pany the whole way ; they were partially hidden in a gray sky, 
which flung a general hue of melancholy too over the green 
country through which we passed. There was only one wretched 
village along the road, but no lack of population : ragged people 
who issued from their cabins as the coach passed, or were 
sitting b}^ the waj-side. Everybody seems sitting by the way- 
side here : one never sees this general repose in England — a 
sort of ragged lazy contentment. All the children seem to be 
on the watch for the coach ; waited very knowinglj^ and care- 
full}' their opportunity, and then hung on by scores behind'. 
What a pleasure to run over flinty roads with bare feet, to be 
whipped off, and to walk back to the cabin again ! These were 
very different cottages to those neat ones I had seen in Kildare. 
The wretchedness of them is quite painful to look at ; manj^ of 
the potato-gardens were half dug up, and it is only the first 
week in August, near three months before the potato is ripe an^ 
at full growth ; and the winter still six months away. There 
were chapels occasionally, and smart new-built churches — one 
of them has a congregation of ten souls, the coachman told me. 
Would it not be better that the clerg3^man should receive them 
in his room, and that the church-building mone}^ should be 
bestowed otherwise ? — 

At length, after winding up all sorts of dismal hills speckled 
with wretched hovels, a ruinous mill every now and then, blnck 
bog-lands, and small winding streams, breaking here and there 
into little falls, we come upon some ground well tilled and 
planted, and descending (at no small risk from stumbling 
horses) a bleak long hill, we see the water before us, and turn- 
ing to the right by the handsome little park of Lord Bearhaven, 
enter Bantr3^ The harbor is beautiful. Small mountains in 
green undulations rising on the opposite side ; great gray ones 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 89 

farther back ; a pretty island in the midst of the water, which is 
wonderful^ bright and cahn. A handsome yacht, and two or 
three vessels with their Sunday colors out, were lying in tlie 
bay. It looked like a seaport scene at a theatre, gay, cheerful, 
neat, and picturesque. At a little distance the town, too, is 
very pretty. There are some smart houses on the quays, a 
handsome court-house as usual, a fine large hotel, and plenty of 
people flocking round the wonderful coach. 

The town is most picturesquely situated, climbing up a 
wooded hill, with numbers of neat cottages here and there, an 
ugly church with an air of pretension, and a large grave Roman 
Catholic chapel the highest point of the place. The Main 
Street was as usual thronged with the squatting blue cloaks, 
carrying on their eager trade of buttermilk and green apples, 
and such cheap wares. With the exception of this street and the 
qua}', with their whitewashed and slated houses, it is a town of 
cabins. The wretchedness of some of them is quite curious : I 
tried to make a sketch of a row which lean against an old wall, 
and are built upon a rock that tumbles about in the oddest and 
most fantastic shapes, with a brawling waterfall dashing down 
a channel in the midst. These are, it appears, the beggars' 
houses : any one may build a lodge against that wall, rent-free ; 
and such places were never seen ! As for drawing them, it was 
in vain to try ; one might as well make a sketch of a bundle of 
rags. An ordinary pigsty in England is really more comfort- 
able. Most of them were not six feet long or five feet high, 
built of stones huddled together, a hole being left for the people 
to creep in at, a ruined thatch to keep out some little portion of 
the rain. The occupiers of these places sat at their doors in 
tolerable contentment, or the children came down and washed 
their feet in the water. I declare I beheve a Hottentot kraal 
has more comforts in it : even to write of the place makes one 
unhappy, and the words move slow. But in the midst of all 
this misery there is an air of actual cheerfulness ; and go but a 
few score yards off, and these wretched hovels lying together 
look really picturesque and pleasing. 



90 THE litlSH SKETCH BOOK. 

CHAPTER IX. 

RAINY DAYS AT GLENGARIFF. 

A SMART two-horse car takes the traveller thrice a week 
from Bantr^^ to Killarney, b}^ wa}^ of Glengariff and Kenmare. 
Unluckily, the rain was pouring down furiously as we passed 
to the first-named places, and we had only opportunity to see 
a part of the astonishing beauty of the country. What sends 
picturesque tourists to the Rhine and Saxon Switzerland? 
within five miles round the pretty inn of Glengariff there is a 
country of the magnificence of which no pen can give an idea. 
I would like to be a great prince, and bring a train of painters 
over to make, if they could, and according to their several 
capabilities, a set of pictures of the place. Mr. Creswick 
would find such rivulets and waterfalls, surrounded by a luxu- 
riance of foliage and verdure that only his pencil can imitate. 
As for Mr. Cattermole, a red-shanked Irishman should carry 
his sketching-books to all sorts of wild noble heights, and vast 
rocky valleys, where he might please himself b}^ piling crag 
upon crag, and b}^ introducing, if he had a mind, some of the 
wild figures which peopled this country in old days. There is 
the Eagle's Nest, for instance, regarding which the Guide-book 
gives a pretty legend. The Prince of Bantrj^ being conquered 
% the English soldiers, fled away, leaving his Princess and 
children to the care of a certain faithful follower of his, who 
was to provide them with refuge and food. But the whole 
countr}^ was overrun bj^ the conquerors ; all the flocks driven 
away b}^ them, all the houses ransacked, and the crops burnt 
off" the ground, and the faithful servitor did not know where 
he should find a meal or a resting-place for the unhappy Prin- 
cess O' Donovan. 

He made, howeA^er, a sort of shed by the side of a moun- 
tain, composing it of sods and stones so artfully that no one 
could tell but that it was a part of the hill itself; and here, 
having speared or otherwise obtained a salmon, he fed their 
Highnesses for the first da}^ ; trusting to heaven for a meal 
when the salmon should be ended. 

The Princess O' Donovan and her princety family soon came 
to an end of the fish ; and cried out for something more. 

So the faithful servitor, taking with him a rope and his little 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 91 

son Shamus, mounted up to the peak where the eagles rested ; 
and, from the spot to which he cUmbed, saw their nest, and 
the young eaglets in it, in a cleft below the precipice. 

"Now," said he, "Shamus my son, you must take these 
thongs with you, and I will let you down b^^ the rope " (it was 
a straw-rope, which he had made himself, and tliough it might 
be considered a dangerous thread to hang by in other coun- 
tries, you'll see plent}^ of such contrivances in Ireland to the 
present da}'). 

"I will let you down by the rope, and 3'ou must tie the 
thongs round the necks of the eaglets, not so as to choke them, 
but to prevent them from swallowing much." So Shamus went 
down and did as his father bade him, and came up again when 
the eaglets were doctored. 

Presentl}' the eagles came home : one bringing a rabbit and 
the other a grouse. These they dropped into the nest for the 
young ones ; and soon after went away in quest of other ad- 
ventures. 

Then Shamus went down into the eagle's nest again, gutted 
the grouse and rabbit, and left the garbage to the eaglets (as 
vv^as their right), and brought awa}' the rest. And so the Prin- 
cess and Princes had game that night for their supper. How 
long they lived in this wa}^ the Guide-book does not sa}'^ : but 
let us trust that the Prince, if he did not come to his own again, 
was at least restored to his family and decently mediatized : 
and, for my part, I have very little doubt but that Shamus, 
the gallant young eagle-robber, created a favorable impression 
upon one of the young Princesses, and (after many adventures 
in which he distinguished himself,) was accepted b}' her High- 
ness for a husband, and her princely parents for a gallant son- 
in-law. 

And here, while we are travelling to Glengariff, and order- 
ing painters about with such princely liberality (by the way, 
Mr. Stanfield should have a boat in the bay, and paint both 
rock and sea at his ease) , let me mention a wonderful, awful 
incident of real life which occurred on the road. About four 
miles from Bantry, at a beautiful wooded place, hard by a mill 
and waterfall, up rides a gentleman to the car with his luggage, 
going to Killarney races. The luggage consisted of a small 
carpet-bag and a pistol-case. About two miles farther on, a 
fellow stops the car: " Joe," says he, " my master is going to 
ride to Killarney, so you please to take his luggage." The 
luggage consisted of a small carpet-bag, and — a pistol-case 



92 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

SIS before. Is this a gentleman's usual travelling baggage in 
Ireland ? 

As there is more rain in this countr}^ than in an}^ other, and 
as, therefore, natural}}^ the inhabitants should be inured to the 
weather, and made to despise an inconvenience which they 
cannot avoid, the travelling-conversances are arranged so that 
you may get as much practice in being wet as possible. The 
traveller's baggage is stowed in a place between the two rows 
of seats, and which is not inaptly called the well, as in a rainy 
season you might possibly get a bucketful of water out of that 
orifice. And I confess I saw, with a horrid satisfaction, the 
pair of pistol-cases tying in this moist aperture, with water 
pouring above them and tying below them ; nay, pra3'ed that 
all such weapons might one day be consigned to the same fate. 
But as the waiter at Bantry, in his excessive zeal to serve me, 
had sent my portmanteau back to Cork by the coach, instead 
of allowing me to carry it with me to Killarnej^, and as the rain 
had long since begun to insinuate itself under the seat-cushion 
and through the waterproof apron of the car, I dropped off at 
Glengariff, and dried the only suit of clothes I had b}" the 
kitchen-fire. The inn is ver}- pretty : some thorn-trees stand 
before it, where many barelegged people were lolling, in spite 
of the weather. A beautiful bay stretches out before the house, 
l"he full tide washing the thorn-trees ; mountains rise on either 
side of the little bay, and there is an island^ with a castle in it, 
in the midst, near which a yacht was moored. But the moun- 
tains were hardly visible for the mist, and the yacht, island, 
and castle looked as if they had been washed against the flat 
gra}^ sk}^ in Indian-ink. 

The day did not clear up sufficiently to allow me to make 
any long excursion about the place, or indeed to see a \ery 
wide prospect round about it : at a few hundred yards, most 
of the objects were enveloped in mist ; but even this, for a 
lover of the picturesque, had its beautiful effect, for you saw 
the hills in the foreground pretty clear, and covered with their 
wonderful green, while immediately behind them rose an im- 
mense blue mass of mist and mountain that served to relieve 
(to use the painter's phrase) the nearer objects. Annexed to 
the hotel is a flourishing garden, where the vegetation is so 
great that the landlord told me it was all he could do to check 
the trees from growing : round about the bay, in several places, 
they come clustering down to the water's edge, nor does the 
salt-water interfere with them. 

Winding up a hill to the right, as you quit the inn, is the 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 93 

beautiful road to the cottage and park of Lord Bantry. One 
or two parties on pleasure bent went so far as the house, and 
were partiallj' consoled for the dreadful rain which presently 
poured down upon them, by wine, whiskey, and refreshments 
which the liberal owner of the house sent out to them. I ni}-- 
self had only got a few hundred yards when the rain overtook 
me, and sent me for refuge into a shed, where a blacksmith 
had arranged a rude furnace and bellows, and where he was 
at work, w^ith a rough gilly to help him, and of course a lounger 
or two to look on. 

The scene was exceedingly wild and picturesque, and I took 
out a sketch-book and began to draw. The blacksmith was at 
first very suspicious of the operation which I had commenced, 
nor did the poor fellow's sternness at all yield until I made him 
a present of a shilhng to buy tobacco — when he, his friend, 
and his son became good-humored, and said their little say. 
This was the first shilling he had earned these three years : he 
was a small farmer, but was starved out, and had set up a 
forge here, and was trying to get a few pence. What struck 
me was the great number of people about the place. We had 
^t least twenty visits while the sketch was being made ; cars, 
and single and double horsemen, w^ere continually passing; 
between the intervals of the shower a couple of ragged old 
women would creep out from some hole and display baskets 
of green apples for sale : wet or not, men and women were 
lounging up and down the road. You would have thought it 
was a fair, and yet there was not even a village at this place, 
only the inn and post-house, by which the cars to Tralee pass 
thrice a week. 

The weather, instead of mending, on the second day was 
worse than ever. All the view had disappeared now under a 
rushing rain, of which I never saw anything like the violence. 
We were visited by five maritime — nay, buccaneering-looking 
gentlemen in moustaches, with fierce "^caps and jackets, just 
landed from a yacht : and then the car brought us three Enghsh- 
men wet to the skin and thirsting for whiskej'-and-water. 

And with these three Englishmen a great scene occurred, 
such as we read of in Smollett's and Fielding's inns. One was 
a fat old gentleman from Cambridge — wlio, I was informed, 
was a Fellow of a college in that university, but whom I 
shrewdly suspect* to be butler or steward of the same. The 

* The suspicion turned out to be very correct. The gentleman is the 
respected cook of C , as I learned afterwards from a casual Cambridge 



94 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

3'ounger men, burly, manly, good-humored fellows of seventeen 
stone, were the nephews of the elder — who, says one, " could 
draw a cheque for his thousand pounds." 

Two-and-twent}^ years before, on landing at the Pigeon- 
House at Dublin, the old gentleman had been cheated by a car- 
man, and his firm opinion seemed to be that all carmen — nay, 
all Irishmen — were cheats. 

And a sad proof of this depravit}^ speedily showed itself: 
for having hired a three-horse car at. Killarne}', which was to 
carry them to Bantr^^, the Englishmen saw, with immense in- 
dignation, after they had drunk a series of glasses of whiskej^, 
that the three-horse car had been removed, a one-horse vehicle 
standing in its stead. 

Their wrath no pen can describe. "I tell you they are 
all so ! " shouted the elder. ' ' When I landed at the Pigeon- 
House . . . ." " Bring me a post-chaise ! " roars the second. 
" Waiter, get some more whiskej^ ! " exclaims the third. " If 
they don't send us on with three horses, I'll stop here for a 
week." Then issuing, with his two young friends, into the 
passage, to harangue the populace assembled there, the elder 
Englishman began a speech about dishonest}-, "d — drogues 
and thieves, Pigeon-House : he was a gentleman, and wouldn't 
be done, d — n his eyes and everybody's e^^es." Upon the af- 
frighted landlord, who came to interpose, they all fell with great 
ferocit}' : the elder man swearing, especially, that he "would 
write to Lord Lansdowne regarding his conduct, likewise to 
Lord Bandon, also to Lord Bantr}^ : he was a gentleman ; he'd 
been cheated in the 3'ear 1815, on his first landing at the Pigeon- 
House : and, d — n the Irish, the}^ were all alike." After roar- 
ing and cursing for half an hour, a gentleman at the door, 
seeing the meek bearing of the landlord — who stood quite lost 
and powerless in the whirlwind of rage that had been excited 
about his luckless ears — said, "If men cursed and swore in 
that way in his house, he would know how to put them out." 

" Put me out ! " sa3^s one of the young men, placing himself 
before the fat old blasphemer his relative. "Put me out, m^' 
fine fellow 1 " But it was evident the Irishman did not like his 
customer. " Put me out ! " roars the old gentleman, from be- 
hind his 3'oung protector. " m}^ eyes, who are you^ sir? 

who are you, sir? I insist on knowing who 3^ou are." 

" And who are you? " asks the Irishman. 

" Sir, I'm a gentleman, and pay my way! and as soon as 
I get into Bantr}' , I swear I'll write a letter to Lord Bandon 
Bantrj^ and complain of the treatment I have received here." 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 95 

Now, as the unhappy landlord had not said one single word, 
and as, on the contrary, to the annoyance of the whole house, 
the stout old gentleman from Cambridge had been shouting, 
raging, and cursing for two hours, I could not help, like a great 
ass as I was, coming forward and (thinking the landlord might 
be a tenant of Lord Bantry's) saying, " Well, sir, if 3'ou 
write and say the landlord has behaved ill, I will write to 
say that he has acted with extraordinary^ forbearance and 
civility." 

O fool ! to interfere in disputes where one set of the dispu- 
tants have drunk half a dozen glasses of whiskej' in the middle 
of the day ! No sooner had I said this than the other young 
man came and fell upon me, and in the course of a few mmutes 
found leisure to tell me " that I was no gentleman ; that I was 
ashamed to give my name, or say where I lived ; that I was 
a liar, and didn't live in London, and couldn't mention the 
name of a single respectable person there ; that he was a mer- 
chant and tradesman, and hid his quality from no one : " and, 
finally, " that though bigger than himself, there was nothing he 
would like better than that I should come out on the green and 
stand to him like a man." 

This invitation, although repeated several times, I refused 
with as much dignity as I could assume ; partly" because I was 
sober and cool, while the other was furious and drunk ; also 
because I felt a strong suspicion that in about ten minutes the 
man would manage to give me a tremendous beating, which I 
did not merit in the least ; thirdl}^, because a victor}' over him 
would not have been productive of the least pleasure to me ; 
and lastly, because there was something really honest and gal- 
lant in the fellow coming out to defend his old relative. Both 
of the younger men would have fought like tigers for this dis- 
reputable old gentleman, and desired no better sport. The last 
I heard of the three was that they and the driver made their 
appearance before a magistrate in Bantry ; and a prett}^ story 
will the old man have to tell to his club at the '' Hoop," or the 
" Red Lion," of those swindling Irish, and the ill-treatment he 
met with in their country. 

As for the landlord, the incident will be a blessed theme of 
conversation to him for a long time to come. I heard him dis- 
coursing of it in the passage during the rest of the day ; and 
next morning when I opened my window and saw with much 
delight the bay clear and bright as silver — except where the 
green hills were reflected in it, the blue sky above, and the pur- 
ple mountains round about with only a few clouds veiling their 



96 THE IRIlbU SKETCH BOOK. 

peaks — the first thing I heard was the voice of Mr. Eccles 
repeating the story to a new customer. 

'' I thought thim couldn't be gintlemin," was the appropriate 
remark of Mr. Tom the waiter, " from the way in which they 
took their whiskey — raw with cold wather, widout mixing or iny 
thing." Could an Irish waiter give a more excellent definition 
of the ungenteel? 

At nine o'clock in the morning of the next da}^, the unluck;^ 
car which had carried the Englishmen to Bantr}^ came back 
to Glengariff, and as the morning was very fine, I was glad to 
take advantage of it, and travel some five-and-thirty English 
miles to Killarney. 



CHAPTER X. 

FROM GLENGARIFF TO KILLARNEY. 

The Irish car seems accommodated for any number of per- 
sons : it appeared to be full when we left Glengariff, for a trav- 
eller from Bearhaven, and the five gentlemen from the yacht, 
took seats upon it with myself, and we fancied it was impossi- 
ble more than seven should travel by such a convej'ance ; 
but the driver showed the capabilities of his vehicle presently. 
The journe}^ from Glengariff to Kenmare is one of astonishing 
beauty ; and I have seen Killarney since, and am sure that 
Glengariff loses nothing by comparison with this most famous 
of lakes. Rock, wood, and sea stretch around the traveller — 
a thousand delightful pictures : the landscape is at first wild 
without being fierce, immense woods and plantations enriching 
the valle3^s — beautiful streams to be seen everywhere. 

Here again I was surprised at the great population along 
the road ; for one saw but few cabins, and there is no village 
between Glengariff and Kenmare. But men and women were 
on banks and in fields ; children, as usual, came trooping up to 
the car : and the jovial men of the yacht had great conversa- 
tions with most of the persons whom we met on the road. A 
merrier set of fellows it were hard to meet. " Should you like 
aiiything to drink, sir?" says one, commencing the acquaint- 
ance. " We have the best whiskey in the world, and plenty of 
porter in the basket." Therewith the jolly seamen produced 
a long bottle of grog, which was passed round from one to 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 97 

another ; and then began singing, shouting, laughing, roaring 
for the whole journey. "British sailors have a knack, pull 
away — ho, boys!" " Hurroo, my fine fellow! does 3^our 
mother know 3'ou're out?" "Hurroo, Tim HerKh}^ you're 
2Lfiuke^ Tim Herlih3^" One man sang on the roof, one hurroo' d 
to the echo, another apostrophized the aforesaid Herlih}^ as he 
passed grinning on a car ; a third had a pocket-handkerchief 
flaunting from a pole, with which he performed exercises in the 
face of au}^ horseman whom we met ; and great were thpir yells 
as the ponies shied off at the salutation and the riders swerved 
in their saddles. In the midst of this rattling chorus we went 
along : graduall}^ the country grew wilder and more desolate, 
and we pa'ssed through a grim mountain region, bleak and bare, 
the road winding round some of the innumerable hills, and once 
or twice by means of a tunnel rushing boldly through them. 
One of these tunnels, they sa}^, is a couple of hundred yards 
long ; and a pretty howling, I need not say, was made through 
that pipe of rock by the jolty j^acht's crew. "We saw you 
sketching in the blacksmith's shed at Glengariff," says one, 
" and we wished we had you on board. Such a jolly life we 
led of it ! " — They roved about the coast, they said, in their 
vessel ; they feasted off the best of fish, mutton, and s\;7hiske3^ ; 
they had Gamble's turtle-soup on board, and fun from morning 
till night, and vice versd. Gradually it came out that there was 
not, owing to the tremendous rains, a dr}^ corner in their ship : 
that they slung two in a huge hammock in the cabin, and that 
one of their crew had been ill, and shirked off. What a won- 
derful thing pleasure is ! To be wet all day and night ; to be 
scorched and blistered by the sun and rain ; to beat in and out 
of little harbors, and to exceed diurnalty upon whiskey-punch — 
'faith, London, and an arm-chair at the club, are more to the 
tastes of some men. 

After much mountain-work of ascending and descending, (in 
which latter operation, and bj^ the side of precipices that make 
passing cockneys rather squeamish, the carman drove like 
mad to the whooping and screeching of the red-rovers,) we at 
length came to Kenmare, of which all that I know is that it lies 
prettih' in a bay or arm of the sea ; that it is approaclied by a 
little hanging-bridge, which seems to be a wonder in these parts ; 
that it is a miserable little place when you enter it ; and that, 
finally, a splendid luncheon of all sorts of meat and excellent 
cold salmon may sometimes be had for a shilling at tlie hotel of 
the place. It is a great vacant house, like the rest of them, 
and would frighten people in England ; but after a few days 

7 



98 . THE miSH SKETCH BOOK. 

one grows used to the Castle Rackrent stj^le. I am not sure 
that there is not a certahi sort of comfort to be had in these 
rambhng rooms, and among these bustUng, bhindering waiters, 
which one does not alwa^^s meet with in an orderly English 
house of entertainment. 

After discussing the luncheon, we found the car with fresh 
horses, beggars, idlers, policemen, &c., standing round of 
course ; and now the miraculous vehicle, which had held 
hitherto seven with some difficult}^, was called upon to accom- 
modate thirteen. 

A pretty noise would our three Englishmen of ^^esterday — 
nay, any other Englishmen for the matter of that — have made, 
if coolly called upon to admit an extra part}^ of four into a 
mail-coach ! The yacht's crew did not make a single objection ; 
a couple clambered up on the roof, where they managed to 
locate themselves with wonderful ingenuit}', perched upon hard 
wooden chests, or agreeably reposing upon the knotted ropes 
which held them together ; one of the new passengers scrambled 
between the driver's legs, whei'e he held on somehow, and the 
rest were pushed and squeezed astonishingly in the car. 

Now the fact must be told, that five of the new passengers 
(I don't count a little boy besides) were women, and very 
pretty, gay, frolicksome, lively, kind-hearted, innocent women 
too ; and for the rest of the journe}^ there was no end of laugh- 
ing and shouting, and singing, and hugging, so that the caravan 
presented the appearance which is depicted in the frontispiece 
of this work. 

Now it ma}' be a wonder to some persons, that with such a 
cargo the carriage did not upset, or some of us did not fall off; 
to which the answer is that we did fall off. A very pretty 
woman fell off, and showed a pair of never-mind-what-colored 
garters, and an interesting English traveller fell off too : but 
heaven bless you ! these cars are made to fall off from ; and 
considering the circumstances of the case, and in the same 
company, I would rather fall off than not. A great number of 
polite allusions and genteel inquiries were, as may be imagined, 
made by the joUj^ boat's crew. But though the lad}^ affected to 
be a little angry at first, she was far too good-natured to be 
angr}' long, and at last fairly burst out laughing with the pas- 
sengers. We did not fall off again, but held on ver}^ tight, and 
just as we were reaching Killarney, saw somebody else fall off 
from another car. But in this instance the gentleman had no 
lady to tumble with. 

For almost half the way from Kenmare, this wild, beautiful 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. " 99 

road commands views of the famous lake and vast bine moun- 
tains about Killarnej^ Turk, Tomies, and Mangerton were 
clothed in purple, like kings in mourning ; great heav}' clouds 
were gathered round their heads, parting awa}' ever}' now and 
then, and leaving their noble features bare. The lake lay for 
some time underneath us, dark and blue, with dark mist}- islands 
in the midst. On the right-hand side of the road would be a 
precipice covered with a thousand trees, or a green rock}- flat, 
with a reed}' mere in the midst, and other mountains rising as 
far as we could see. I think of that diabolical tune in " Der 
Freischutz " while passing through this sort of countr}'. Every 
now and then, in the midst of some fresh country or inclosed 
trees, or at a turn of the road, you lose the sight of the great 
big awful mountain: but, like the aforesaid tune in '' Der 
Freischutz," it is alwaj's there close at hand. You feel that it 
keeps you company. And so it was that we rode b}' dark old 
Mangerton, then presentl}' past Muckross, and then through 
two miles of avenues of lime-trees, b}^ numerous lodges and 
gentlemen's seats, across an old bridge, where you see the 
mountains again and the lake, until, by Lord Kenmare's house, 
a hideous row of houses informed us that we were at Kil- 
larne3^ 

Here my companion suddenl}^ let go my hand, and by a cer- 
tain uneasy motion of the waist, gave me notice to withdraw 
the other too ; and so we rattled up to the "Kenmare Arms :" 
and so ended, not without a sigh on m}' part, one of the merriest 
six-hour rides that five yachtmen, one cockney, five women and 
a child, the carman, and a countryman with an alpeen, ever 
took in their lives. 

As for my fellow-companion, she would hardl}^ speak the 
next day ; but all the five maritime men made me vow and 
promise that I would go and see them at Cork, where I should 
have horses to ride, the fastest yacht out of the harbor to sail 
in, and the best of whiskey, claret, and welcome. Amen, and 
may every single person who buys a copy of this book meet 
with the same deserved fate. 

The town of Killarney was in a violent state of excitement 
with a series of horse-races, hurdle-races, boat-races, and stag- 
hunts by land and water, which were taking place, and attracted 
a vast crowd from all parts of the kingdom. All the inns were 
full, and lodgings cost five shilUngs a day — nay, more in some 
places ; for though my landlady, Mrs. Macgillicuddy, charges 
but Iftat sum, a leisurel}- old gentleman, whom I never saw in 
my life before, made m}^ acquaintance by stopping me in the 



100 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

street 3'esterday, and said he paid a pound a day for his two 
bedrooms. The old gentleman is eager for company ; and 
indeed, when a man travels alone, it is wonderful how little he 
cares to select his society ; how indifferent company pleases 
him ; how a good fellow delights him : how sorry he is when 
the time for parting comes, and he has to walk off alone, and 
begin the friendship-hunt over again. 

The first sight I witnessed at Killarney was a race-ordinary, 
where, for a sum of twelve shillings, any man could take his 
share of turbot, salmon, venison, and beef, with port, and sherry, 
and whiske3^-punch at discretion. Here were the squires of Cork 
and Kerry, one or two Englishmen, whose voices amidst the 
rich humming brogue round about sounded quite affected (not 
that they were so, but there seems a sort of impertinence in the 
shrill, high-pitched tone of the English voice here). At the 
head of the table, near the chairman, sat some brilliant young- 
dragoons, neat, solemn, dull, with huge moustaches, and boots 
polished to a nicety. 

And here of course the conversation was of the horse, 
horsey : how Mr. This had refused fifteen hundred guineas for 
a horse which he bought for a hundred ; how Bacchus was the 
best horse in Ireland ; which horses were to run at Something 
races ; and how the Marquis of Waterford gave a plate or a 
purse. We drank " the Queen," with hip! hip! hurrah! the 
"winner of the Kenmare stakes" — hurrah! Presentl}^ the 
gentleman next me rose and made a speech : he had brought 
a mare down and won the stakes — a hundred and sevent}^ 
guineas — and I looked at him with a great deal of respect. 
Other toasts ensued, and more talk about horses. Nor am I in 
the least disposed to sneer at gentlemen who like sporting and 
talk about it : for I do believe that the conversation of a dozen 
fox-hunters is just as clever as that of a similar number of mer- 
chants, barristers, or literar}^ men. But to this trade, as to all 
others, a man must be bred ; if he has not learnt it thoroughly 
or in early life, he will not readil}' become a proficient afterwards, 
and when therefore the subject is broached, had best maintain 
a profound silence. 

A 3'oung Edinburgh cockney, with an easy self-confidence 
that the reader ma}^ have perhaps remarked in others of his 
calling and nation, and who evidentl}' knew as much of sporting 
matters as the individual who writes this, proceeded neverthe- 
less to give the company his opinions, and greatly astonished 
them all ; for these simple people are at first willing to i^elieve 
that a stranger is sure to be a knowing fellow, and did not seem 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 101 

inclined to be ..undeceived even by this little pert, grinning 
Scotchman. It was good to hear him talk of Haddington, 
Musselburgh — and heaven knows what strange, outlandish 
places, as if they were known to all the world. And here 
would be a good opportunity to enter into a dissertation upon 
natural characteristics : to show that the bold, swaggering Irish- 
man is really a modest fellow, while the cann}' Scot is a most 
brazen one ; to wonder why the inhabitant of one country is 
ashamed of it — which is in itself so fertile and beautiful, and has 
produced more than its fair proportion of men of genius, valor, 
and wit ; whereas it never enters into the head of a Scotchman 
to question his own equalit}' (and something more) at all : but 
that such discussions are quite unprofitable ; nay, that exactl}' 
the contrary propositions may be argued to just as much length. 
Has the reader ever tried with a dozen of De Tocqueville's short 
crisp philosophic apophthegms and taken the converse of them ? 
The one or other set of propositions will answer equallj' well ; 
and it is the best way to avoid all such. Let the above passage, 
then, simply be understood to say, that on a certain day the 
writer met a vulgar little Scotchman — not that all Scotchmen 
are vulgar ; — that this little pert creature prattled about his 
country as if he and it were ornaments to the world — which 
the latter is, no doubt ; and that one could not but contrast 
his behavior with that of great big stalwart simple Irishmen, who 
asked 3'our opinion of their country with as much modesty as if 
you — because an Englishman — must be somebody, and thej^ 
the dust of the earth. 

Indeed, this want of self-confidence at times becomes quite 
painful to the stranger. If in reply to their queries, you say 
you like the country, people seem realty quite delighted. Why 
should the}'? Why should a stranger's opinion who doesn't 
know the country be more valued than a native's who does ? — 
Suppose an Irishman in England were to speak in praise or 
abuse of the countr}^ would one be particularly pleased or an- 
noyed ? One would be glad that the man liked his trip ; but as 
for his good or bad opinion of the countr}^, the country stands 
on its own bottom, superior to any opinion of any man or 
men. 

I must beg pardon of the little Scotchman for reverting to 
him (let it be remembered that there were two Scotchmen at 
Killarney, and that I speak of the other one) ; but I have seen 
no specimen of that sort of manners in any Irishman since I 
have been in the countr3\ I have met more gentlemen here 
than in any place I ever saw : gentlemen of high and low ranks. 



102 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

that is to say : men shrewd and delicate of perception, observ- 
ant of society, entering into the feelings of others, and anxious 
to set them at ease or to gratify' them ; of course exaggerating 
their professions of kindness and in so far insincere ; but the 
ver3^ exaggeration seems to be a proof of a kindly nature, and 
I wish in England we were a little more complimentary. In 
Dublin, a lawj'er left his chambers, and a literary- man his books, 
to walk the town with me — the town^ which the}^ must know 
a great deal too well : for, prett}^ as it is, it is but a small place 
after all, not like that great bustling, changing, struggling world, 
the Englishman's capital. Would a London man leave his busi- 
ness to trudge to the Tower or the Park with a stranger? We 
would ask him to dine at the club, or to eat whitebait at Love- 
grove's, and think our duty done, neither caring for him, nor 
professing to care for him ; and we pride ourselves on our 
honesty accordingl}^ Never was honesty more selfish. And 
so a vulgar man in England disdains to flatter his equals, and 
chiefly displays his character of snob b}^ assuming as much as 
he can for himself, swaggering and showing oflf in his coarse, 
dull, stupid way. 

"I am a gentleman, and pa}^ my way," as the old fellow 
said at Glengariff. I have not heard a sentence near so vulgar 
from any man in Irelahd. Yes, by the wa}^ there was another 
Englishman at Cork : a man in a middling, not to sa}' humble, 
situation of life. When introduced to an Irish gentleman, his 
formula seemed to be, " I think, sir, I have met you somewhere 
before." "I am sure, sir, I have met joii before," he said for 
the second time in m}^ hearing, to a gentleman of great note in 

Ireland. " Yes, I have met you at Lord X 's." " I don't 

know m}' Lord X ," replied the Irishman. " Sir," sa^'s the 

other, '■'■I shall have great pleasure in introducing you to him." 
Well, the good-natured simple Irishman thought this gentleman 
a verj' fine fellow. There was only one, of some dozen who 
spoke about him, that found out snob. I suppose the Spaniards 
lorded it over the Mexicans in this way : their drummers pass- 
ing for generals among the simple red men, their glass beads 
for jewels, and their insolent bearing for heroic superiority. 

Leaving, then, the race-ordinar}- (that little Scotchman with 
his airs has carried us the deuce knows how far out of the way), 
I came home just as the gentlemen of the race were beginning 
to " mix," that is, to forsake the wine for the punch. At the 
lodgings I found m}^ five companions of the morning with a 
bottle of that wonderful whiskey of which the}^ spoke ; and 
which they had agreed to exchange against a bundle of Liver- 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 103 

pool cigars : so we discussed them, the whiske}', and other top- 
ics in common. Now there is no need to violate the sanctity 
of private life, and report the conversation which took place, the 
songs which were sung, the speeches which were made, and 
the other remarkable events of the evening. Suffice it to say, 
that the English traveller gradually becomes accustomed to 
whiskej^-punch (in moderation of course), and finds the bev- 
erage \evy agreeable at Killarney ; against which I recollect a 
protest was entered at DubUn. 

But after we had talked of hunting, racing, regatting, and 
all other sports, I came to a discover}^ which astonished me, 
and for which these honest,, kind fellows are mentioned publicly 
here. The portraits, or a sort of resemblance of four of them, 
may be seen in the foregoing drawing of the car. The man 
with the straw-hat and handkerchief tied over it is the captain 
of an Indiaman ; three others, with each a pair of moustaches, 
sported 3'acht-costumes, jackets, club anchor-buttons, and so 
forth ; and, finally, one on the other side of the car (who cannot 
be seen on account of the portmanteaus, otherwise the likeness 
would be perfect,) was dressed with a coat and a hat in the 
ordinar}' way. One with the gold band and moustaches is a 
gentleman of property ; the other three are attorneys ever^' man 
of them ; two in large practice in Cork and Dublin, the other, 
and owner of the yacht, under articles to the attorne}^ of Cork. 
Now did any Englishman ever live with three attorneys for a 
whole day without hearing a single syllable of law spoken ? Did 
we ever see in our country attorneys with moustaches ; or, above 
all, an attornej^'s clerk the owner of a 3'acht of thirty tons? 
He is a gentleman of property too — the heir, that is, to a good 
estate ; and has had a yacht of his own, he says, ever since he 
was fourteen years old. Is there any English bo}^ of fourteen 
who commands a ship with a crew of five men under him ? We 
all agreed to have a boat for the stag-hunt on the lake next 
day ; and I went to bed wondering at this strange country more 
than ever. An attorne}^ with moustaches ! What would they 
say of him in Chancery Lane ? 



104 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

CHAPTER XI. 

KILLARNEY — STAG-HUNTING ON THE LAKE. 

Mrs. Macgillicuddy's house is at the corner of the two 
principal streets of Killarney town, and the drawing-room win- 
dows command eacli a street. Before one window is a dismal, 
rickety building, with a slated face, that looks like an ex-town- 
hall. There is a row of arches to the ground-floor, the angles 
at the base of which seem to have mouldered or to have been 
kicked away. Over the centre arch is a picture with a flourish- 
ing 3'ellow inscription above, importing that it is the meeting- 
place of the Total Abstinence Societ}^ Total abstinence is 
represented b}^ the figures of a gentleman in a blue coat and 
drab tights, with gilt garters, who is giving his hand to a lady ; 
between them is an escutcheon surmounted with a cross and 
charged with religious emblems. Cupids float, above the heads 
and between the legs of this happy pair, while an exceedingly 
small tea-table with the requisite crocker}- reposes against the 
lad3^'s knee ; a still, with death's-head and bloody bones, filling 
up the naked corner near the gentleman. A sort of market is 
held here, and the place is swarming with blue cloaks and 
groups of men talking ; here and there is a stall with coarse 
linens, crockery, a cheese ; and crowds of egg- and milk-women 
are squatted on the pavement, with their ragged customers or 
gossips ; and the yellow-haired girl, on the next page, with a 
barrel containing nothing at all, has been sitting, as if for her 
portrait, this hour past. 

Carts, cars, jingles, barouches, horses and vehicles of all 
descriptions rattle presently through the streets : for the town 
is crowded with compan}^ for the races and other sports, and 
all the world is bent to see the stag-hunt on the lake. Where 
the ladies of the Macgillicudd}' family have slept, heaven 
knows, for their house is full of lodgers. What voices you 
hear ! " Bring me some hot wai^a/i," says a genteel, high-piped 
English voice. " Hwhere's me hot wather ? " roars a deep-toned 
Hibernian. See, over the way, three ladies in ringlets and 
green tabbinet taking their " ta}^ " preparatory to setting out. 
I wonder whether they heard the sentimental songs of the law- 
marines last night? They must have been edified if they 
did. 




The Market at Killarney 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 105 

M}^ companions came, true to their appointment, and we 
walked down to the boats, lying at a couple of miles from the 
town, near the " Victoria Inn," a handsome mansion, in pretty 
grounds, close to the lake, and owned by the patriotic Mr. Finn. 
A nobleman offered Finn eight hundred pounds for the use of 
his house during the races, and, to Finn's eternal honor be it 
said, he refused the money, and said he would keep his house 
for his friends and patrons, the public. Let the Cork Steam- 
Packet Company think of this generosity on the part of Mr. 
Finn, and blush for shame : at the Cork Agricultural Show they 
raised their fares, and were disappointed in their speculation, 
as they deserved to be, by indignant Englishmen refusing to 
go at all. 

The morning had been bright enough ; but for fear of acci- 
dents we took our mackintoshes, and at about a mile from the 
town found it necessary to assume those garments and wear 
them for the greater part of the day. Passing by the "Vic- 
toria," with its beautiful walks, park, and lodge, we came to a 
little creek where the boats were moored ; and there was the 
wonderful lake before us, with its mountains, and islands, and 
trees. Unluckily, however, the mountains happened to be in- 
visible ; the islands looked hke gray masses in the fog, and all 
that we could see for some time was the gray silhouette of the 
boat ahead of us, in which a passenger was engaged in a witty 
conversation with some boat still further in the mist. 

Drumming and trumpeting was heard at a little distance, and 
presently we found ourselves in the midst of a fleet of boats 
upon the rocky shores of the beautiful little Innisfallen. 

Here we landed for a while, and the weather clearing up 
allowed us to see this charming spot : rocks, shrubs, and little 
abrupt rises and falls of ground, covered with the brightest 
emerald grass ; a beautiful little ruin of a Saxon chapel, lying 
gentle, delicate, and plaintive on the shore ; some noble trees 
round about it, and beyond, presently, the tower of Ross Castle : 
island after island appearing in the clearing sunshine, and the 
huge' hills throwing their misty veils off, and wearing their noble 
robes of purple. The boats' crews were grouped about the place, 
and one large barge especially had landed some sixty people, 
being the Temperance band, with its drums, trumpets, and 
wives. They were marshalled by a grave old gentleman with a 
white waistcoat and queue, a silver medal decorating one side 
of his coat, and a brass heart reposing on the other flap. The 
horns performed some Irish airs prettily ; and at length, at the 
instigation of a fellow who went swaggering about with a pair 



106 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

of whirling drumsticks, all formed together and plaj^ed Garr}^- 
owen — the active drum of course most dreadfully- out of time. 

Having strolled about the island for a quarter of an hour, it 
became time to take to the boats again, and we were rowed 
over to the wood opposite Sullivan's cascade, w^here the hounds 
had been laid in in the morning, and the stag was expected to 
take water. Fift}^ or sixty men are employed on the mountain 
to drive the stag lakewards, should he be inclined to break 
awa}^ : and the sport generall}^ ends by the stag — a wild one — 
making for the water with the pack swimming afterwards ; and 
here he is taken and disposed of: how I know not. It is rather 
a parade than a stag-hunt ; but, with all the boats around and 
the noble view, must be a fine thing to see. 

Presentl}-, steering his barge, the " Erin," with twelve oars 
and a green flag sweeping the water, came by the president of 
the sports, Mr. John O'Connell, a gentleman who appears to 
be liked b}' rich and poor here, and by the latter especiall}^ is 
adored. " Sure we'd dhrown ourselves for him," one man told 
me ; and proceeded to speak eagerly in his praise, and to tell 
numberless acts of his generosity and justice. The justice is 
rather rude in this wild country sometimes, and occasionall}'' 
the judges not only deliver the sentence but execute it ; nor 
does any one think of appealing to an}^ more regular jurisdic- 
tion. The likeness of Mr. O'Connell to his brother is ver3^ 
striking : one might have declared it was the Liberator sitting 
at the stern of the boat. 

Some scores more boats were there, darting up and down in 
the pretty, busy w^aters. Here came a Cambridge boat ; and 
where, indeed, will not the gentlemen of that renowned uni- 
A'ersity be found? Yonder were the dandy dragoons, stiff, 
silent, slim, faultlessl}^ appointed, solemnly puffing cigars. 
Every now and then a hound would be heard in the wood, 
whereon numbers of voices, right and left, would begin to 3^ell 
in chorus — " Hurroo ! Hoop ! Yow — 3'ow — 3'ow ! " in accents 
the most shrill or the most melancholious. Meanwhile the 
sun had had enough of the sport, the mountains put on their 
veils again, the islands retreated into the mist, the word went 
through the fleet to spread all umbrellas, and ladies took shares 
of mackintoshes and disappeared under the flaps of silk cloaks. 

The wood comes down to the ver}' edge of the water, and 
many of the crews thought fit to land and seek this green 
shelter. There you might see how the dandium summd genus 
hcBsit ulmo, clambering up thither to hide from the rain, and 
many "membra" in dabbled russia-ducks cowering viridi suh 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 107 

arhuto ad aquce lene caput. To behold these moist dandies the 
natives of the country came eagerly. Strange, savage faces 
might be seen peering from out of the trees : long-haired, bare- 
legged girls came down the hill, some with green apples and 
very sickl^'-looking plums ; some with whiske}' and goat's-milk : 
a ragged boy had a pair of stag's-horns to sell ; the place 
swarmed with people. We went up the hill to see the noble 
cascade, and when you say that it comes rushing down over 
rock and through tangled woods, alas ! one has said all the 
dictionary can help you to, and not enough to distinguish this 
particular cataract from any other. This seen and admired, we 
came back to the harbor where the boats la}^, and from which 
spot the reader might have sccn the foregoing view of the lake 
— that is, 3'ou would see the lake, if the mist would onl}- clear 
away.* 

But this for hours it did not seem inclined to do. We rowed 
up and down industriously for a period of time which seemed 
to me atrociously long. The bugles of the "Erin" had long 
since sounded " Home, sweet home ! " and the greater part of 
the fleet had dispersed. As for the stag-hunt, all I saw of it 
was four dogs that appeared on the shore at different intervals, 
and a huntsman in a scarlet coat, who similarly came and 
went : once or twice we were gratified by hearing the hounds ; 
but at last it was agreed that there was no chance for the da}'', 
and we rowed off to Kenmare Cottage — = where, on the lovely 
lawn, or in a cottage adjoining, the gentry picnic, and where, 
with a handkerchiefful of potatoes, we made as pleasant a meal 
as ever I recollect. Here a good number of the boats were 
assembled ; here 3'ou might see cloths spread and dinner going 
on ; here were those wonderful officers, looking as if they had 
just stepped from band-boxes, with — hy heavens ! — not a shirt- 
collar disarranged nor a boot dimmed by the wet. An old 
piper was making a ver}^ feeble music, with a handkerchief 
spread over his face ; and, farther on, a little smiling German 
boy was playing an accordion and singing a ballad of Hauff's. 
I had a silver medal in m}' pocket, with Victoria on one side 
and Britannia on the other, and gave it him, for the sake of 
old times and his round friendly face. Oh, little German boy, 
many a night as you trudge lonely through this wild land, must 
3'OU yearn after Bruderlein and Schwesterlein at home — 3onder 
in stately Frankfurt city that lies by silver Mayn. I thought 
of vineyards and sunshine, and the greasy clock in the theati-e, 
and the railroad all the way to Wiesbaden, and the handsome 
* This refers to an illustrated edition of the work. 



108 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

Jew country-houses by the Bockenheimer-Thor .... "Come 
along," says the boatman. " All the glntlemin are waiting for 
your honor." And I found them finishing the potatoes, and we 
all had a draught of water from the lake, and so pulled to the 
Middle or Turk Lake through the picturesque green rapid that 
floats under Brickeen Bridge. 

What is to be said about Turk Lake? When there, we 
agreed that it was more beautiful than the large lake, of which 
it is not one fourth the size ; then, when we came back, we said, 
" No, the large lake is the most beautiful." And so, at e\evy 
point we stopped at, we determined that that particular spot 
was the prettiest in the whole lake. The fact is — and I don't 
care to own it — they are too handsome. As for a man coming 
from his desk in London or Dublin and seeing ' ' the whole lakes 
in a day," he is an ass for his pains ; a child doing sums in addi- 
tion might as well read the whole multiplication- table, and fancy 
he had it by heart. We should look at these wonderful things 
leisurely and thoughtfully ; and even then, blessed is he who 
understands them. I wonder what impression the sight made 
upon the three tipsy Englishmen at Glengariff ? What idea of 
natural beauty belongs to an old fellow who says he is "a 
gentleman, and pays his way?" What to a jolly fox-hunter, 
who had rather see a good " screeching " run with the hounds 
than the best landscape ever painted ? And yet they all come 
hither, and go through the business regularly, and would' not 
miss seeing every one of the lakes and going up every one of 
the hills. B}^ which circumlocution the writer wishes ingen- 
uously to announce that he will not see any more lakes, ascend 
any mountains or towers, visit any gaps of Dunloe, or any pros- 
pects whatever, except such as nature shall fling in his way in 
the course of a quiet reasonable walk. 

In the Middle Lake we were carried to an island where 
a ceremony of goat's-milk and whiskey is performed by some 
travellers, and where you are carefully conducted to a spot that 
" Sir Walter Scott admired more than all." Whether he did 
or not, we can only say on the authority of the boatman ; but 
the place itself was a quiet nook, where three waters meet, and 
indeed of no great picturesqueness when compared with the 
beauties around. But it is of a gentle, homely beauty — not 
like the lake, which is as a princess dressed out in diamonds 
and velvet for a drawing-room, and knowing herself to 1)3 
faultless too. As for Innisfallen, it was just as if she gave one 
smiling peep into the nursery before she went away, so quiet, 
innocent, and tender is that lovely spot ; but, depend on it, if 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 109 

there is a lake fairy or princess, as Crofton Croker and other 
historians assert, she is of her nature a vain creature, proud of 
her person, and fond of the finest dresses to adorn it. May I 
confess that I would rather, for a continuance, have a house 
facing a paddock, with a cow in it, than be always looking at 
this immense, overpowering splendor. You would not, my 
dear brother cockney from Tooley Street? No, those brilliant 
eyes of thine were never meant to gaze at anything less bright 
than the sun. Your mighty spirit finds nothing too vast for its 
comprehension^ spurns what is humble as unworthy, and only, 
like Foote's bear, dances to " the genteelest of tunes." 

The long and short of the matter is, that on getting off the 
lake, after seven hours' rowing, I felt as much relieved as if I 
had been dining for the same length of time with her Majesty 
the Queen, and went jumping home as gayly as possible ; but 
those marine lawyers insisted so piteously upon seeing Ross 
Castle, close to which we were at length landed, that I was 
obUged (in spite of repeated oaths to the contrary) to ascend 
that tower, and take a bird's-eye view of the scene. Thank 
heaven, I have neither tail nor wings, and have not the slight- 
est wish to be a bird : that continual immensity of prospect 
which stretches beneath those little wings of theirs must deaden 
their intellects, depend on it. Tomkins and I are not made 
for the immense : we can enjoy a little at a time, and enjoy 
that nttle very much ; or if like birds, we are Uke the ostrich — 
not that we have fine feathers to our backs, but because we 
cannot fly. Press us too much, and we become flurried, and 
run off" and bury our heads in the quiet bosom of dear mother 
earth, and so get rid of the din, and the dazzle, and the 
shouting. 

Because we dined upon potatoes, that was no reason we should 
sup on buttermilk. Well, well ! salmon is good, and whiskey 
is good too. 



CHAPTER XII. 

KILLARNEY — THE RACES — MUCKROSS. 

The races were as gay as races could be, in spite of one or 
two untoward accidents that arrived at the close of the day's 
sport. Where all the people came from that thronged out of 
the town was a wonder; where all the vehicles, the cars, 



110 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

barouches and shandrydans, the carts, the horse- and donkey- 
men could have found stable and shelter, who can tell? Of all 
these equipages and donke3^pages I had a fine view from Mrs. 
Macgillicuddy's window, and it was pleasant to see the happy 
faces shining under the blue cloaks as the carts rattled by. 

A very handsome 3'oung lady — I presume Miss MacG. — 
who gives a hand to the drawing-room and comes smiling in 
with the teapot — Miss MacG., I say, appeared to-da^^ in a 
silk bonnet and stiff silk dress, with a brooch and a black 
mantle, as smart as any lady in the land, and l(joking as if she 
was accustomed to her dress too, which tiie housemaid on 
banks of Thames does not. Indeed, I have not met a more 
ladylike young person in Ireland than Miss MacG. ; and when 
I saw her in a handsome car on the course, I was quite proud 
of a bow. 

Tramping thither, too, as hard as they could walk, and as 
happ3' and smiling as possible, were Mary the coachman's wife 
of the day before, and Johanna with the child, and presently 
the other 3'oung lad3' : the man with the stick, you ma3" be 
sure : he would toil a year for that day's pleasure. They are 
all mad for it : people walk for miles and miles round to the 
race ; the3^ come without a penny in their pockets often, trust- 
ing to chance and charit3^ and that some worth3' gentleman 
ma3" fling them a sixpence. A gentleman told me that he saw 
on the course persons from his part of the country, who must 
have walked eight3^ miles for the sport. 

For a mile and a half to the racecourse there could be no 
pleasanter occupation than looking at the happ3^ multitudes 
who were thronging thither ; and I am bound to sa3^ that on 
rich or poor shoulders I never saw so many handsome faces in 
my life. In the carriages, among the ladies of Kerry, ever3- 
second woman was handsome ; and there is something pecu- 
liarly tender and pleasing in the looks of the 3'oung female 
peasantr3^ that is perhaps even better than beaut3\ Beggars 
had taken their stations along the road in no great numbers, 
for I suspect they were most of them on the ground, and those 
who remained were consequently of the oldest and ugliest. It 
is a shame that such horrible figures are allowed to appeal- in 
public as some of the loathsome ones which belong to these 
unhapp3^ people. On went the crowd, however, laughing and 
as ga3' as possible ; all sorts of fun passing from car- to foot- 
passengers as the prett3^ girls came clattering b3^, and the 
"bo3^s" had a. word for each. One lady, with long flowing 
auburn hair, who was turning away her head from some ' ' boys " 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. Ill 

very demurely, I actuallj^ saw, at a pause of the cart, kissed 
by one of them. She gave the fellow a huge box on the ear 
and he roared out, ' ' O murther ! " and she frowned for some 
time as hard as she could, whilst the ladies in the blue cloaks 
at the back of the car uttered a shrill rebuke in Irish. But in 
a minute the whole party was grinning, and the joung fellow 
who had administered the salute ma}-, for what I know, have 
taken another without the slap on the face by way of exchange. 

And here, lest the fair public may have a bad opinion of 
the personage who talks of kissing with . such awful levity, let 
it be said that with all this laughing, romping, kissing, and the 
like, there are no more innocent girls in the world than the 
Irish girls ; and that the women of our squeamish country are 
far more liable to err. One has but to walk through an English 
and Irish town, and see how much superior is the morality 
of the latter. That great terror-striker, the Confessional, is 
before the Irish girl, and sooner or later her sins must be told 
there. 

B3' this time we are got upon the course, which is realty 
one of the most beautiful spots that ever was seen : the lake 
and mountains lying along two sides of it, and of course visible 
from all. The}" were busy putting up the hurdles when we 
arrived : stiff bars and poles, four feet from the ground, with 
furze-bushes over them. The grand stand was already full ; 
along the hedges sat thousands of the people, sitting at their 
ease doing nothing, and happ}^ as kings. A daguerreotype 
would have been of great service to have taken their portraits, 
and I never saw a vast multitude of heads and attitudes so 
picturesque and livety." The sun lighted up the whole course 
and the lakes with amazing brightness, though behind the 
former lay a huge rack of the darkest clouds, against which 
the cornfields and meadows shone in the brightest green and 
gold, and a row of white tents was quite dazzling. 

There was a brightness and intelligence about this immense 
Irish crowd, which I don't remember to have seen in an Eng- 
lish one. The women in their blue cloaks, with red smiling 
faces peering from one end, and bare feet from the other, had 
seated themselves in all sorts of pretty attitudes of cheerful 
contemplation ; and the men, who are accustomed to lie about, 
were doing so now with all their might — sprawUng on the 
banks, with as much ease and variety as club-room loungers on 
their soft cushions, — or squatted leisurely among the green 
potatoes. The sight of so much happ}" laziness did one good 
to look on. Nor did the honest fellows seem to weary of this 



112 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

amusement. Hoars passed on, and the gentlefolks (judging 
from our party) began to grow somewhat weary ; but the finest 
peasantr}^ in Europe never budged from their posts, and con- 
tinued to indulge in greetings, indolence, and conversation. 

When we came to the row of white tents, as usual it did not 
look so brilliant or imposing as it appeared from a little dis- 
tance, though the scene around them was animating enough. 
The tents were long humble booths stretched on hoops, each 
with its humble streamer or ensign without, and containing, of 
course, articles of refreshment within. But Father Mathew 
has been busy among the publicans, and the consequence is 
that the poor fellows are now condemned for the most part to 
sell "tay" in place of whiskey; for the concoction of which 
beverage huge caldrons were smoking, in front of each hut- 
door, in round graves dug for the purpose and piled up with 
black smoking sod. 

Behind this camp were the carts of the poor people, which 
were not allowed to penetrate into the quarter where the qualitj^ 
cars stood. And a little way from the huts, again, you might 
see (for you could scarcely hear) certain pipers executing their 
melodies and inviting people to dance. 

Anything more lugubrious than the drone of the pipe, or 
the jig danced to it, or the countenances of the dancers and 
musicians, I never saw. Round each set of dancers the people 
formed a ring, in the which the figurantes and cor^^phees went 
through their operations. The toes went in and the toes went 
out ; then there came certain mystic figures of hands across, 
and so forth. I never saw less grace or seemingly less enjoy- 
ment — no, not even in a quadrille. The people, however, 
took a great interest, and it was " Well done, Tim ! " " Step 
out, Miss Brady ! " and so forth during the dance. 

Tliimble-rig too obtained somewhat, though in a humble way. 
A ragged scoundrel — the image of Hogarth's Bad Apprentice 
— went bustling and shouting through the crowd with his dirty 
tray and thimble, and as soon as he had taken his post, stated 
that this was the "royal game of thimble" and called upon 
"gintlemin" to come forward. And then a ragged fellow 
would be seen to approach, with as innocent an air as he could 
assume, and the bystanders might remark that the second ragged 
fellow almost always won. Nay, he was so benevolent in many 
instances, as to point out to various people who had a mind to 
bet, under which thimble the pea actually was. Meanwhile, the 
first fellow was sure to be looking awa}^ and talking to some one 
in the crowd ; but somehow it generally happened — and how 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 113 

of course I can't tell — that any man who listened to the advice 
of rascal No. 2, lost his mone}^ I believe it is so even in Eng- 
land. 

Then you would see gentlemen with halfpenny roulette- 
tables, and, again, here were a pair who came forward disinter- 
estedlj" with a table and a pack of cards, and began pla3'ing 
against each other for ten shillings a game, betting crowns as 
freely as possible. 

Gambling, however, must have been fatal to both of these 
gentlemen, else might not one have supposed that, if they were 
in the habit of winning much, the}^ would have treated them- 
selves to better clothes? This, however, is the way with all 
gamblers, as the reader has no doubt remarked : for, look at a 
game of loo or vingt-et-un played in a friendl}- way, and where 
you, and three or four others, have certainly lost three or four 
pounds, — well, ask at the end of the game who has won, and 
you invariabty find that nobody has. Hopkins has only cov- 
ered himself; Snooks has neither lost nor won ; Smith has won 
four shillings ; and so on. Who gets the money? The devil 
gets it, I dare sa}^ ; and so, no doubt, he has laid hold of the 
money of yonder gentleman in the handsome great-coat. 

But, to the shame of the stewards, be it spoken, they are ex- 
tremely averse to this kind of sport ; and presently- comes up 
one, a stout old gentleman on a bay horse, wielding a huge 
hunting-whip, at the sight of which all flj', amateurs, idlers, pro- 
fessional men, and all. He is a rude customer to deal with, 
that gentleman with the whip : just now he was clearing the 
course, and cleared it with such a vengeance, that a whole 
troop on a hedge retreated backwards into a ditcTi opposite, 
where was rare kicking, and sprawling, and disarrangement 
of petticoats, and cries of " O murther ! " " Mother of God ! " 
"I'm kilt!" and so on. But as soon as the horsewhip was 
gone, the people clambered out of their ditch again, and were 
as thick as ever on the bank. 

The last instance of the exercise of the whip shall be this. 
A groom rode insolentlj- after a gentleman, calling him names, 
and inviting him to fight. This the great flagellator hearing, 
rode up to the groom, lifted him gracefully oflf his horse into 
the air, and on to the ground, and when there administered 
to him a severe and merited fustigation ; after which he told 
the course-keepers to drive the fellow off* the course, and en- 
joined the latter not to appear again at his peril. 

As for the races themselves, I won't pretend to say that they 
were better or worse than other such amusements ; or to quarrel 



114 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

with gentlemen who choose to risk their lives in manty exercise. 
In the first race there was a fall : one of the gentlemen was 
carried off the ground, and it was said he was dead. In the 
second race, a horse and man went over and over each other, 
and the fine 3'oung man (we had seen him five minutes before, 
full of life and triumph, clearing the hurdles on his gray horse, 
at the head of the race) : — in the second heat of the second 
race the poor fellow missed his leap, was carried away stunned 
and dying, and the bay horse won. 

I was standing, during the first heat of this race, (this is the 
second man the gra}^ has killed — the}^ ought to call him the 
Pale Horse,) by half a dozen 3'oung girls from the gentleman's 
village, and hundreds more of them were there, anxious for the 
honor of their village, the young squire, and the gray horse. 
Oh, how they hurrah'd as he rode ahead ! I saw these girls — 
they might be fourteen years old — after the catastrophe. 
" Well," says I, '' this is a sad end to the race." '' And is it 
the pink jacket or the blue has won this timeV^ sa3s one of the 

girls. It was poor Mr. C 's onty epitaph : and wasn't it a 

sporting answer ? That girl ought to be a hurdle-racer's wife ; 
and I would like, for my part, to bestow her upon the groom 
who won the race. 

I don't care to confess that the accident to the poor young 
gentleman so thoroughly disgusted my feeling as a man and a 
cockne}^, that I turned off the racecourse short, and hired a 
horse for sixpence to carry me back to Miss Macgillicuddy. In 
the evening at the inn, (let no man who values comfort go to an 
Irish inn in race-time,) a bhnd old piper, with silver}- hair and 
of a most respectable, bard-like appearance, played a great deal 
too much for us after dinner. He played very well, and with 
YQYj much feeling, ornamenting the airs with flourishes and vari- 
ations that were very pretty indeed, and his pipe was b}' far the 
most melodious I have heard ; but honest truth compels me to 
say, that the bad pipes are execrable, and the good inferior to 
a clarionet. 

Next day, instead of going back to the racecourse, a car 
drove me out to Muckross, where, in Mr. Herbert's beautiful 
grounds, lies the prettiest little hijou of a ruined abbe}^ ever seen 
— a little chapel with a little chancel, a little cloister, a little 
dormitory, and in the midst of the cloister a wonderful huge 
yew-tree which darkens the whole place. The abbey is famous 
in book and legend ; nor could two young lovers, or artists in 
search of the picturesque, or picnic-parties with the cold chicken 
and champagne in the distance, fi/id a more charming place to 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 115 

while awa}^ a summer's da}^ than in the park of Mr. Herbert. 
But depend on it, for show-places, and the due enjo3'ment of 
scener}', that distance of cold chickens and champagne is the 
most pleasing perspective one can have. I would have sacri- 
ficed a mountain or two for the above, and would have pitched 
Mangerton into the lake for the sake of a friend with whom to 
enjo}' the rest of the landscape. 

The walk through Mr. Herbert's demesne carries 3'ou, through 
all sorts of ])eautiful avenues, b}^ a fine house which he is build- 
ing in the Elizabethan style, and from which, as from the whole 
road, 3'ou command the most wonderful rich views of the lake. 
The shore breaks into little bays, which the water washes ; here 
and there are picturesque gray rocks to meet it, the bright grass 
as often, or the shrubs of every kind which bathe their roots in 
the lake. It was August, and the men before Turk Cottage 
were cutting a second crop of clover, as fine, seemingly, as a 
first crop elsewhere : a short walk from it brought us to a neat 
lodge whence issued a keeper with a key, quite willing, for the 
consideration of sixpence, to conduct us to Turk Waterfall. 

Evergreens and other trees in their brightest livery ; blue sky ; 
roaring water, here black, and yonder foaming of a dazzling 
white ; rocks shining in the dark places, or frowning black 
against the light, all the leaves and branches keeping up a per- 
petual waving and dancing round about the cascade : what is 
the use of putting down all this ? A man might describe the 
cataract of the Serpentine in exactly the same terms, and the 
reader be no wiser. Suffice it to say, that the Turk cascade is 
even handsomer than the before-mentioned waterfall of O'Sulli- 
van, and that a man ma}- pass half an hour there, and look, and 
listen, and muse, and not even feel the want of a companion, or 
so much as think of the iced champagne. There is just enough 
of savageness in the Turk cascade to make the view piquante. 
It-is not, at this season at least, b}^ an}' means fierce, onl}' wild ; 
nor was the scene peopled by any of the rude, red-shanked 
figures that clustered about the trees of O'Sullivan's waterfall, 
— savages won't pa}' sixpence for the prettiest waterfall ever 
seen — so that this onl}' was for the best of company. 

The road hence to Killarne}' carries one through Muckross 
village, a prett}^ cluster of houses, where the sketcher will find 
abundant materials for exercising his art and puzzling his hand. 
There are not onl}' noble trees, but a green common and an old 
water-gate to a river, lined on either side by beds of rushes and 
discharging itself beneath an old mill-wheel. But the old mill- 
wheel was perfectl}' idle, like most men and mill-wheels m this 



116 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

countiy : b}' it is a ruinous house, and a fine garden of stinging- 
nettles ; opposite it, on the common, is another ruinous house, 
with another garden containing the same plant ; and far awaj" 
are sharp ridges of purple hills, which make as pretty a 
landscape as the e3'e can see. I don't know how it is, but 
throughout the countrj" the men and the landscapes seem to be 
the same, and one and the other seem ragged, ruined, and 
cheerful . 

Having been emplo3^ed all day (making some abominable 
attempts at landscape-drawing, which . shall not be exhibited 
here), it became requisite, as the evening approached, to re- 
cruit an exhausted cockne}^ stomach — which, after a very 
moderate portion of exercise, begins to sigh for beefsteaks in 
the most peremptory manner. Hard by is a fine hotel with a 
fine sign stretching along the road for the space of a dozen 
windows at least, and looking inviting enough. All the doors 
were open, and I walked into a great number of rooms, but the 
only person I saw was a woman with trinkets of arbutus, who 
offered me, bj^ wa}" of refreshment, a walking-stick or a card- 
rack. I suppose everybody was at the races ; and an evilly- 
disposed person might have laid main-hasse upon the great-coats 
which were there, and the silver spoons, if b}' an}' miracle such 
things were kept — but Britannia-metal is the favorite compo- 
sition in Ireland ; or else iron by itself ; or else iron that has 
been silvered over, but that takes good care to peep out at all 
the corners of the forks : and blessed is the traveller who has 
not other observations to make regarding his fork, besides the 
mere abrasion of the silver. 

This was the last daj-'s race, and on the next morning 
(Sunday), all the thousands who had crowded to the race 
seemed trooping to the chapels," and the streets were blue with 
cloaks. Walking in to pra3''ers, and without his board, came 
my young friend of the thimble-rig, and presently after saun- 
tered in the fellow with the long coat, who had played at cards 
for sovereigns. I should like to hear the confession of himself 
and friend the next time they communicate with his reverence. 

The extent of this town is very curious, and I should imagine 
its population to be much greater than five thousand, which 
was the number, according to Miss Macgillicudd}'. Along the 
three main streets are numerous arches, down ever}^ one of 
which runs an alley, intersected by other alleys, and swarming 
with people. A stream or gutter runs commonl}^ down these 
alleys, in which the pigs and children are seen paddling about. 
The men and women loll at their doors or windows, to enjo^^ 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 117 

the detestable prospect. I saw two pigs under a fresh-made 
deal staircase in one of the main streets near the Bridewell : 
two very well-dressed girls, with their hair in ringlets, were 
looking out of the parlor-window : almost all the glass in the 
upper rooms was of course smashed, the windows patched here 
and there (if the people were careful), the wood- work of the 
door loose, the whitewash peeling off, — and the house evidently 
not two years old. 

By the Bridewell is a busy potato-market, picturesque to 
the sketcher, if not very respectable to the merchant: here 
were the country carts and the country cloaks, and the shrill 
beggarly bargains going on — a world of shrieking and gesticu- 
lating, and talk, about a pennyworth of potatoes. 

All round the town miserable streets of cabins are stretched. 
You see people lolling at each door, women staring and comb- 
ing their hair, men with their little pipes, children whose rags 
hang on by a miracle, idling in a gutter. Are we to set all this 
down to absenteeism, and pity poor injured Ireland? Is the 
landlord's absence the reason why the house is filthy, and 
Biddy lolls in the porch all day? Upon ray word, I have heard 
people talk as if, when Pat's thatch vras blown off', the land- 
lord ought to go fetch the straw and the ladder, and mend it 
himself. People need not be dirty if they are ever so idle ; if 
they are ever so poor, pigs and men need not live together. 
Half an hour's work, and digging a trench, might remove that 
filthy dunghill from that filthy window. The smoke might as 
well come out of the chimney as out of the door. Wh}- should 
not Tim do that, instead of walking a lumdred and sixty miles 
to a race? The priests might do much more to effect these 
reforms than even the landlords themselves : and I hope now 
that the excellent Father Mathew has succeeded in arraying his 
clergy to work with him in the abohtion of drunkenness, they 
will attack the monster Dirt, with the same good-will, and 
surely with the same success. 



118 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

TRALEE — LISTOWEL — TARBERT. 

* 

I MADE the journe}^ to Tralee next da}^, upon on« of the 
famous Bianconi cars — very comfortable conveyances too, if 
the booking-officers would only receive as many persons as the 
car would hold, and not have too many on the seats. For half 
an hour before the car left Killarney, I observed people had 
taken their seats : and, let all travellers be cautious to do like- 
wise, lest, although thej^ have booked their places, they be 
requested to mount on the roof, and accommodate themselves 
on a band-box, or a pleasant deal trunk with a knotted rope, 
to prevent it from being shppery, while the corner of another 
box jolts against your ribs for the journey. I had put my coat 
on a place, and was stepping to it, when a lovely lady with 
great activity jumped up and pushed the coat on the roof, and 
not only occupied my seat, but insisted that her husband should 
have the next one to her. So there was nothing for it but to 
make a huge shouting with the book-keeper and call instantly 
for the taking down of my luggage, and vow my great gods 
that I would take a post-chaise and make the office pay : on 
which, I am ashamed to sa}', some other person was made to 
give up a decently comfortable seat on the roof, which I occu- 
pied, the former occupant hanging on — heaven knows where 
or how. 

' A compan}' of young squires were on the coach, and they 
talked of horse-racing and hunting punctually for three hours, 
during which time I do believe they did not utter one single 
word upon any other subject. What a wonderful faculty it is ! 
The writers of Natural Histories, in describing the noble horse, 
should sa}' he is made not onl}^ to run, to csivry burdens, &c., 
but to be talked about. What would hundreds of thousands of 
dashing 3'oung fellows do with their tongues, if they had not 
this blessed subject to discourse on? 

As far as the coniitry went, there was here, to be sure, not 
much to be said. You pass through a sad-looking, bare, un- 
dulating country, with few trees, and poor stone-hedges, and 
poorer crops ; nor have I yet taken in Ireland so dull a ride. 
About half-way between Tralee and Killarne}" is a wretched 
town, where horses are changed, and where I saw more hideous 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 119 

beggary than anj^where else, I think. And I was glad to get 
over this gloomy tract of countiy, and enter the capital of 
Kerr\\ 

It has a handsome description in the guide-books ; b\it, if I 
mistake not, the English traveller will find a stay of a couple 
of hours in the town quite sufficient to gratify' his curiosity 
with respect to the place. There seems to be a great deal of 
poor business going on; the town thronged wtth people as 
usual ; the shops large and not too splendid. There are two 
or three rows of respectable houses, and a mall, and the towns- 
people have the further privilege of walking in the neighboring 
grounds of a handsome park, which the proprietor has liberally 
given to their use. Tralee has a newspaper, and boasts of a 
couple of clubs : the one I saw was a big white house, no win- 
dows broken, and looking comfortable. But the most curious 
sight of the town was the chapel, with the festival held there. 
It was the feast of the Assumption of the Virgin, (let those 
who are acquainted with the calendar and the facts it com- 
memorates say what the feast was, and when it falls,) and all 
the country seemed to be present on the occasion : the chapel 
and the large court leading to it were thronged with worshippers, 
such as one never sees in our country, where devotion is by no 
means so crowded as here. Here, in the court-jard, there 
were thousands of them on their knees, rosary in hand, for the 
most part praying, and mumbhng, and casting a wistful look 
round as the strangers passed. In a corner was an old man 
groaning in the agonies of death or colic, and a woman got off 
her knees to ask us for charity for the unhappy old fellow. In 
the chapel the crowd was enormous : the priest and his people 
were kneeling, and bowing, and humming, and chanting, and 
censer-rattling ; the ghostly crew being attended by a fellow 
that I don't remember to have seen in Continental churches, 
a sort of Catholic clerk, a black shadow to the parson, bowing 
his head when his reverence bowed, kneeling when he knelt, 
only three steps lower. 

But we who wonder at copes and candlesticks, see nothing 
strange in surplices and beadles. A Turk, doubtless, would 
sneer equally at each, and have you to understand that the 
only reasonable ceremonial was that which took place at his 
mosque. 

Whether right or wi'ong in point of ceremony, it was evident 
the heart of devotion was there : the immense dense crowd 
moaned and swayed, and you heard a hum of all sorts of wil(? 
ejaculations, each man praying seemingly for himself, while th<j 



120 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

service went on at the altar. The altar candles flickered red in 
the dark, steaming place, and ever}^ now and then from the 
choir you heard a sweet female voice chanting Mozart's music, 
which -swept over the heads of the people a great deal more 
pure and deUcious than the best incense that ever smoked out 
of pot. 

On the chapel-floor, just at the entry, lay several people 
moaning, and tossing, and telling their beads. Behind the old 
woman was a font of holy water, up to which little children 
were clambering ; and in the chapel-yard were several old 
women, with tin cans full of the same sacred fluid, with which 
the people, as they entered, aspersed themselves with all their 
might, flicking a great quantity into their faces, and making 
a curtsy and a pra3^er at the same time. " A pretty praj^er, 
truly!" saj^s the parson's wife. "What sad, sad, benighted 
superstition ! " says the Independent minister's lady. Ah ! 
ladies, great as your intelligence is, yet think, when compared 
with the Supreme One, what a little difference there is after all 
between 3^our husbands' very best extempore oration and the 
poor Popish creatures' ! One is just as far off Infinite Wisdom 
as the other : and so let us read the story of the woman and 
her pot of ointment, that most noble and charming of histories ; 
which equalizes the great and the small, the wise and the poor 
in spirit, and shows that their merit before heaven lies in doing 
their best. 

When I came out of the chapel, the old fellow on the point 
of death was still howling and groaning in so vehement a 
manner, that I heartily trust he was an impostor, and that on 
receiving a sixpence he went home tolerably comfortable, hav- 
ing secured a maintenance for that day. But it will be long 
before I can forget the strange, wild scene, so entirely different 
was it from the decent and comfortable observances of our own 
church. 

Three cars set off together from Tralee to Tarbert : three cars 
full to overflowing. The vehicle before us contained nineteen 
persons, half a dozen being placed in the receptacle called the 
well, and one clinging on as if b}^ a miracle at the bar behind. 
What can people want at Tarbert ? I wondered ; or anywhere 
else, indeed, that they rush about from one town to another in 
this inconceivable way ? All the cars in all the towns seem to 
be thronged : people are perpetually hurrying from one dismal 
tumble-down town to another; and yet no business is done 
anj^where that I can see. The chief part of the contents of 
our three cars was discharged at Listowel, to which, for 




Chapel at Tralee. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 121 

the greater part of the journe}^, the road was neither more 
cheerful nor picturesque than that from Killarney to Tralee. 
As, however, 3'ou reach Listowel, the countr}- becomes better 
cultivated, the gentlemen's seats are more frequent, and the 
town itself, as seen from a little distance, lies very prettily on 
a riA^er, which is crossed by a handsome bridge, which leads to 
a neat-looking square, which contains a smartish church, which 
is flanked by a big Roman Catholic chapel, &c. An old castle, 
gray and ivj^-covered, stands hard by. It was one of the 
strongholds of the Lords of Kerr}^, whose burying-place (ac- 
cording to the information of the coachman) is seen at about a 
league from the town. 

But pretty as Listowel is from a distance, it has, on a more 
intimate acquaintance, by no means the prosperous appearance 
which a first glance gives it. The place seemed like a scene 
at a country theatre, once smartly painted by the artist ; but 
the paint has cracked in many places, the lines are worn away, 
and the whole piece only looks more shabby for the flaunting 
strokes of the brush which remain. And here, of course, came 
the usual crowd of idlers round the car : the epileptic idiot 
holding piteously out his empt}^ tin snuff-box ; the brutal idiot, 
in an old soldier's coat, proffering his money-box and grinning 
and clattering the single halfpenny it contained ; the old man 
with no ej^elids, caUing upon you in the name of the Lord ; the 
woman with a child at her hideous, wrinkled breast ; the chil- 
dren without number. As for trade, there seemed to be none : 
a great Jeremy-Diddler kind of hotel stood hard by, swagger- 
ing and out-at-elbows, and six prett}^ girls were smiling out of 
a beggarly straw-bonnet shop, dressed as smartly as any gen- 
tleman's daughters of good estate. It was good, among the 
crowd of bustling, shrieking fellows, who were "jawing " vastly 
and doing nothing, to see how an English bagman, with scarce 
any words, laid hold of an ostler, carried him off vi et armis in 
the midst of a speech, in which the latter was going to explain 
his immense activit}' and desire to serve, pushed him into a 
stable, from which he issued in a twinkling, leading the ostler 
and a horse, and had his bag on the car and his horse off in 
about two minutes of time, while the natives were still shouting 
round about other passengers' portmanteaus. 

Some time afterwards, away we rattled on our own journey 
to Tarbert, having a postilion on the leader, and receiving, I 
must say, some graceful bows from the young bonnet-maker- 
esses. But of all the roads over which human bones were ever 
jolted, the first part of this from Listowel to Tarbert deserves 



122 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

the palm. It shook us all into headaches ; it shook some nails 
out of the side of a box I had ; it shook all the cords loose 
in a twinkling, and sent the baggage bumping about the pas- 
sengers' shoi\lders. The coachman at the call of another Eng- 
lish bagman, who was a fellow-traveller, — the postilion at the 
call of the coachman, descended to re-cord the baggage. The 
English bagman had the whole mass of trunks and bags stoutly 
corded and firmly fixed in a few seconds ; the coachman helped 
him as far as his means allowed ; the postilion stood b}' with 
his hands in his pockets, smoking his pipe, and never offering 
to stir a finger. I said to him that I was delighted to see in a 
3'outh of sixteen that extreme activity and willingness to oblige, 
and that I would give him a handsome remuneration for his ser- 
vices at the end of the journey : the 3'oung rascal grinned with all 
his might, understanding the satiric nature of the address per- 
fectly well ; but he did not take his hands out of his pockets for 
all that, until it was time to get on his horse again, and then, 
having carried us over the most difficult part of the journe}^, 
removed his horse and pipe, and rode away with a parting 
grin. 

The cabins along the road were not much better than those 
to be seen south of Tralee, but the people w^ere far better 
clothed, and indulged in several places in the luxury of pig- 
sties. Near the prettily situated village of Bally longford, we 
came in sight of the Shannon mouth ; and a huge red round 
moon, that shone behind an old convent on the banks of the 
bright river, with dull green meadows between it and us, and 
white purple flats beyond, would be a good subject for the 
pencil of any artist whose wrist had not been put out of joint 
by the previous ten miles' journe3^ 

The town of Tarbert, in the guide-books and topographical 
dictionaries, flourishes considerabl3^ You read of its port, its 
corn and provision stores, &c., and of certain good hotels ; for 
which as travellers we were looking with a laudable anxiety. 
The town, in ftict, contains about a dozen of houses, some hun- 
dreds of cabins, and two hotels ; to one of which we were driven, 
and a kind landlady, conducting her half-dozen guests into a 
snug parlor, was for our ordering refreshment immediately, — 
which I certainl}' should have done, but for the ominous whisper 
of a fellow in the crowd as we descended (of course a disinter- 
ested patron of the other house), who hissed into my ears, ^^Ask 
to see the beds : " which proposal, accordingly, I made before 
coming to any determination regarding supper. 

The worthy landlady eluded my question several times with 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 123 

great skill and good-humor, but it became at length necessary 
to answer it ; which she did b}' putting on as confident an air 
as possible, and leading the way up stairs to a bedroom, where 
there was a good large comfortable bed certainly. 

The only objection to the bed, liowever, was that it contained 
a sick lady, whom the hostess proposed to eject without an}' 
ceremon}^, sajing that she was a great deal better, and going 
to get up that very evening. However, none of us had the 
heart to tyrannize over lovelj' woman in so painful a situation, 
and the hostess had the grief of seeing four out of her five 
guests repair across the way to " Brallaghan's " or " Gallagher's 
Hotel," — the name has fled from my memory, but it is the big 
hotel in the place ; and unless the sick lady has quitted the 
other inn, which most likely she has done by this time, the Eng- 
lish traveller will profit b}' this advice, and on arrival at Tar- 
bert will have himself transported to "Gallagher's" at once. 

The next morning a car carried us to Tarbert Point, where 
there is a pier not yet completed, and a Preventive station, and 
where the Shannon steamers touch, that pl}^ between Kilrush 
and Limerick. Here lay the famous river before us, with low 
banks and rich pastures on either side. 



CHAPTER XrV. 

LIMERICK. 

A CAPITAL steamer, which on this day was thronged with 
people, carried us for about, four hours down the noble stream 
and landed us at Limerick qnsLV. The character of the land- 
scape on either side the stream is not particularly picturesque, 
but large, liberal and prosperous. Gentle sweeps of rich mead- 
ows and cornfields cover the banks, and some, though not too 
man}', gentlemen's parks and plantations rise here and there. 
But the landscape was somehow more pleasing than if it had 
been merely picturesque ; and, especially after coming out of 
that desolate county of Kerry, it was pleasant for the eye to 
rest upon this peaceful, rich, and generous scene. The first 
aspect of Limerick is very smart and pleasing : fine neat quays 
with considerable liveliness and bustle, a very handsome bridge 
(the Wellesley Bridge) before the spectator ; who, after a walk 



124 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

through two long and 'flourishing streets, stops at length at one 
of the best inns in Ireland — the large, neat, and prosperous 
one kept b}^ Mr. Cruise. Except at Youghal, and the poor 
fellow whom the Englishman belabored at Glengariff, Mr. Cruise 
is the only landlord of an inn 1 have had the honor to see in 
Ireland. I believe these gentlemen commonl}^ (and very natu- 
rally) prefer riding with the hounds, or manly sports, to attend- 
ance on their guests ; and the landladies, if they prefer to play 
the piano, or to have a game of cards in the parlor, only show 
a taste at which no one can wonder : for who can expect a lady 
to be troubling herself with vulgar chance- customers, or look- 
ing after Molly in the bedroom or waiter Tim in the cellar ? 

Now, beyond this piece of information regarding the excel- 
lence of Mr. Cruise's hotel, which ever}' traveller knows, the 
writer of this doubts very much whether he has anything to sa}' 
about Limerick that is worth the trouble of saying or reading. 
I can't attempt to describe the Shannon, only to say that on 
board the steamboat there was a piper and a bugler, a hundred 
of genteel persons coming back from donkey-riding and bathing 
at Kilkee, a couple of heaps of rawhides that smelt ver}^ foully, 
a score of women nursing children, and a lobster-vender, who 
vowed to me on his honor that he gave eightpence apiece for 
his fish, and that he had boiled them only the da}^ before ; but 
when I produced the Guide-book, and solemnty told him to 
swear upon that to the truth of his statement, the lobster-seller 
turned away quite abashed, and would not be brought to sup- 
port his previous assertion at all. Well, this is no descriptioa 
of the Shannon, as you have no need to be told, and other 
travelling cockneys will no doubt meet neither piper nor lobster- 
seller, nor raw hides ; nor, if they come to the inn where this 
is written, is it probable that they will hear, as I do this present 
moment, two fellow^s with red whiskers, and immense pomp and 
noise and blustering with the waiter, conclude b}- ordering a 
pint of ale between them. All that one can hope to do is, to 
give a sort of notion of the movement and manners of the 
people ; pretending by no means to offer a description of places, 
but simply an account of what one sees in them. 

So that if any traveller after staying two days in Limerick 
should think fit to present the reader with forty or fift}^ pages 
of dissertation upon the antiquities and history of the place, 
upon the state of commerce, religion, education, the public may 
be pretty well sure that the traveller has been at work among 
the guide-books, and filching extracts from the topographical 
and local works. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 125 

The}' sa}' there are three towns to make one Limerick : 
there is the Irish Town on the Clare bide ; the English Town 
with its old castle (which has siistaiiud n deal of battering and 
blows from Danes, from fierce Irish kings, from English warriors 
who took an interest in the place, Henry Secundians, Elizabeth- 
ans, Cromwellians, and vice versa, Jacobites, King Williamites, 
— and nearly escaped being in the hands of the Robert Emmett- 
ites) ; and finally the district called Newtown-Pery. In walking 
through this latter tract, you are at first half led to beheve that 
you are arrived in a second Liverpool, so tall are the warehouses 
and broad the quays ; so neat and trim a street of near a mile 
which stretches before you. But even this mile-long street 
does not, in a few minutes, appear to be so wealth}' and pros- 
perous as it shows at first glance ; for of the population that 
throng the streets, two-fifths are barefooted women, and two- 
fifths more ragged men : and the most part of the shops which 
have a grand show with them appear, when looked into, to be 
no better than they should be, being empty makeshift-looking 
places with their best goods outside. 

Here, in this handsome street too, is a handsome club-house, 
with plenty of idlers, you may be sure, lolling at the portico ; 
likewise you see numerous young oflScers, with very tight 
waists and absurd brass shell-epaulettes to their little absurd 
frock-coats, walking the pavement — the dandies of the street. 
Then you behold whole troops of pear, apple, and plum-women, 
seUing very raw, green-looking fruit, which, indeed, it is a 
wonder that any one should eat and liA^e. The houses are 
bright red — the street is full and gay, carriages and cars in 
plenty go jingling by — dragoons in red are every now and 
then clattering up the street, and as upon every car which 
passes with ladies in it you are sure (I don't know how it is) 
to see a pretty one, the great street of Limerick is altogether 
a very brilliant and animated sight. 

If the ladies of the place are pretty, indeed the vulgar are 
scarcely less so. I never saw a greater number of kind, pleas- 
ing, clever-looking faces among any set of people. There seem, 
however, to be two sorts of physioguomies w^hich are common : 
the pleasing and somewhat melancholy one before mentioned, 
and a square, high-cheeked, flat-nosed physiognomy, not un- 
commonly accompanied by a hideous staring head of dr}' red 
hair. Except, however, in the latter case, the hair flowing- 
loose and long is a pretty characteristic of the women of the 
country : many a fair one do you see at the door of the cabin, 
or the poor shop in the town, coinbing complacently that 



12G THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

" greatest ornament of female beauty," as Mr. Rowland justly 

calls it. 

The generality of the women here seem also much better 
clothed than in Kerr}^ ; and I saw man}' a one going barefoot, 
whose gown was nevertheless a good one, and whose cloak was 
of fine cloth. Likewise it must be remarked, that the beggars 
in Limerick were by no means so numerous as those in Cork, 
or in many small places through which I have passed. There 
were but five, strange to say, round the mail-coach as we went 
away ; and, indeed, not a great number in the streets. 

The belles lettres seems to be by no means so well cultivated 
here as in Cork. I looked in vain for a Limerick Guide-book : 
I saw but one good shop of books, and a little trumpery circu- 
lating librar}^ which seemed to be provided with those immor- 
tal works of a year old — which, having been sold for half a 
guinea the volume at first, are suddenl}' found to be worth only 
a shilling. Among these, let me mention, with perfect resig- 
nation to the decrees of fate, the works of one Titmarsh : they 
were rather smartly bound by an enterprising publisher, and I 
looked at them in Bishop Murphy's Library at Cork, in a book- 
shop in the remote little town of Ennis, and elsewhere, with 
a melancholy tenderness. Poor flowerets of a season ! (and a 
very short season too), let me be allowed to salute your 
scattered leaves with a passing sigh ! . . . . Besides the book- 
shops, I observed in the long, best street of Limerick a half- 
dozen of what are called French shops, with knick-knacks, 
German-silver chimne}- -ornaments, and paltry finery. In the 
windows of these you saw a card with ' ' Cigars ; " in the book- 
shop, " Cigars ; " at the grocer's, the whiskey-shop, " Cigars : " 
everybody sells the noxious weed, or makes believe to sell it, 
and I know no surer indication of a struggling, uncertain trade 
than that same placard of " Cigars." I went to buy some of 
the pretty Limerick gloves (they are chiefly made, as I have 
since discovered, at Cork). I think the man who sold them 
had a patent from the Queen, or his Excellency, or both, in 
his window : but, seeing a friend pass just as I entered the 
shop, he brushed past, and held his friend in conversation for 
some minutes in the street, — about the Killarney races no 
doubt, or the fun going on at Kilkee. I might have swept 
away a bagful of walnut-shells containing the flimsy gloves ; 
but instead walked out, making him a low bow, and sa3ing I 
would call next week. He said "wouldn't I wait?"" and re- 
sumed his conversation ; and, no doubt, by this wa}' of doing 
business, is making a handsome independence. I asked one 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 127 

of the ten thousand fruit- women the price of her green pears. 
" Twopence apiece," she said ; and there were two little ragged 
beggars standing b}' , who were munching the fruit. A book- 
shopwoman made me pay threepence for a bottle of ink which 
usuallj^ costs a penn}' ; a potato-woman told me that her pota- 
toes cost fourteenpence a stone : and all these hidi-s treated 
the stranger with a leering, wheedhng servihty which made 
me long to box their ears, were it not that the man who lays 
his hand upon a woman is an &c., whom 'twere gross flattery 
to call a what-d'3^e-call-'im? By the way, the man who pla^'ed 
Duke Aranza at Cork delivered the celebrated claptrap above 
alluded to as follows ; — 

" The man who lays his hand upon a woman, 
Save in the way of kindness, is a villain, 
Whom 'twere a gross piece of ilattery to call a coward ; " 

and looked round calmly for the applause, which deservedly 
followed his new reading of the passage. 

To return to the apple- women : — legions of ladies were 
employed through the town upon that traffic ; tliere were really 
thousands of them clustering upon the bridges, squatting down 
in doorways and vacant sheds for temporary markets^ march- 
ing and crying their sour goods in all the crowded lanes of the 
city. After you get out of the Main Street the handsome part 
of the town is at an end, and you suddenly find yourself in 
such a labyrinth of busy swarming poverty and squalid com- 
merce as never was seen — no, not in Saint Giles's, where 
Jew and Irishman side by side exhibit their genius for dirt. 
Here every house almost was a half ruin, and swarming with 
people : in the cellars you looked down and saw a barrel of 
herrings, which a merchant was dispensing ; or a sack of meal, 
which a poor dirty woman sold to people poorer and dirtier 
than herself: above was a tinman, or a shoemaker, or other 
craftsman, his battered ensign at the door, and his small wares 
peering through the cracked panes of his shop. As for the 
ensign, as a matter of course the name is never written in 
letters of the same size. You read — 



TA'LOA 



5HQE MAK'^ 



or some^ similar signboard. High and low, in this country, 
they begin things on too large a scale. They begin churches 



128 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

too big and can't finish them ; mills and houses too big, and 
are ruined before the}^ are done ; letters on signboards too big, 
and are up in a corner before the inscription is finished. There 
is something quite strange, really, in this general consistenc}^ 

Well, over James Hurley, or Pat Hanlahan, you will most 
likel}' see another board of another tradesman, with a window 
to the full as curious. Above Tim Carthy evidently lives another 
famil3^ There are long-haired girls of fourteen at every one of 
the windows, and dirty children everywhere. In the cellars, 
look at them in ding^' white nightcaps over a bowl of stirabout ; 
in the shop, paddling up and down the ruined steps, or issuing 
from beneath the black counter ; up above, see the girl of four- 
teen is tossing and dandling one of them-; and a prett}^ tender 
sight it is, in the midst of this filth and wretchedness, to see 
the women and children together. It makes a sunshine in the 
dark place, and somehow half reconciles one to it. Children 
are everywhere. Look out of the nast}^ streets into the still 
more nasty back lanes : there they are, sprawling at every door 
and court, paddling in every puddle ; and in about a fair pro- 
portion to every six children an old woman — a very old, blear- 
eyed, ragged woman — who makes believe to sell something 
out of a basket, and is perpetuall}' calling upon the name of 
the Lord. For every three ragged old women you will see two 
ragged old men, praying and moaning like the females. And 
there is no lack of young men, either, though I never could 
make out what the}" were about : they loll about the street, 
chiefly conversing in knots ; and in every street you will be 
prett}^ sure to see a recruiling-sergeant, with gay ribbons in 
his cap, loitering about with an eye upon the other loiterers 
there. The buzz and hum and chattering of this crowd is 
quite inconceivable to us in England, where a crowd is gener- 
ally silent. As a person with a decent coat passes, they stop 
in their talk and say, " God bless you for a fine gentleman ! " 
In these crowded streets, where all are beggars, the beggary 
is but small : only the very old and hideous venture to ask for 
a penny, otherwise the competition W'Ould be too great. 

As for the buildings that one lights upon every now and 
then in the midst of such scenes as this, they are scarce worth 
the trouble to examine : occasionally 3'ou come on a chapel 
with sham Gothic window^s and a little belfry, one of the Catho- 
lic places of worship ; then, placed in some quiet street, a neat- 
looking Dissenting meeting-house. Across the river yonder, 
as you issue out from the street where the preceding sketch 
was taken, is a handsome hospital ; near it the old cathedral, 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 129 

a bcarbarons old turreted edifice — of tlie fourteenth century it is 
said : how different to the sumptuous elegance wliich character- 
izes the English and continental churches of the same period ! 
Passing b}^ it, and walking down other streets, — black, ruin- 
ous, swarming, dark, hideous, — j^ou come upon the barracks 
and the walks of the old castle, and from it on to an old bridge, 
from which the view is a fine one. On one side are the gra}^ 
])astions of the castle ; beyond them, in the midst of the broad 
.stream, stands a huge mill that looks like another castle ; fur- 
tlier yet is the handsome new Wellesley Bridge, with some little 
craft upon the river, and the red warehouses of the New Town 
looking prosperous enough. The Irish Town stretches away 
to the right; there are pretty villas beyond it; and on the 
bridge are walking twenty-four young girls, in parties of four 
and five, with their arms round each other's waists, swaying 
to and fro, and singing or chattering, as happy as if they had 
shoes to their feet. Yonder you see a dozen pair of red legs 
glittering in the water, their owners being employed in wash- 
ing their own or other people's rags. 

The Guide-book mentions that one of the aboriginal forests 
of the country is to be seen at a few miles from Limerick, and 
thinking that an aboriginal forest would be a huge discovery, 
and form an instructive and delightful feature of the present 
work, I hired a car in order to visit the same, and pleased my- 
self with visions of gigantic oaks, Druids, Norma, wildernesses 
and awful gloom, which would fill the soul with horror. The 
romance of the place was heightened by a fact stated by the 
carman, viz. that until late years robberies were very frequent 
about the wood ; the inhabitants of the district being a wild, 
lawless race. Moreover, there are numerous castles round 
about, — and for what can a man wish more than robbers, 
castles, and an aboriginal wood? 

The way to these wonderful sights lies through the undulat- 
ing grounds which border the Shannon ; and though the view is 
by no means a fine one, I know few that are pleasanter than the 
sight of these rich, golden, peaceful plains, with the full harvest 
waving on them and just ready for the siclile. The hay harvest 
was Ukewise just being concluded, and the air loaded with the 
rich odor of the hay. Above the trees, to your left, you saw 
the mast of a ship, perhaps moving along, and every now and 
then caught a glimpse of the Shannon, and the low grounds 
and plantations of the opposite county of Limerick. Not an 
unpleasant addition to the landscape, too, was a sight which 1 
do not remember to have witnessed often in this country — that 

9 



130 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

of sereral small and decent farm-houses, with their stacks and 
sheds and stables, giving an air of neatness and fflenty that the 
poor cabin with its potato-patch does not present. Is it on 
account of the small farms that the land seems richer and better 
cultivated here than in most other parts of the country? Some 
of the houses in the midst of the warm summer landscape had a 
strange appearance, for it is often the fashion to whitewash the 
roofs of the houses, leaving the slates of the walls of their 
natural color : hence, and in the evening especialh^ contrasting 
with the purple sky, the house-tops often looked as if they were 
covered with snow. 

According to the Guide-book's promise, the castles began 
soon to appear : at one point we could see three of these an- 
cient mansions in a line, each seemingly with its little grove of 
old trees, in the midst of the bare but fertile country. By this 
time, too, we had got into a road so abominably bad and rocky, 
that I began to believe more and more with regard to the splen- 
dor of the aboriginal forest, which must be most aboriginal and 
ferocious indeed when approached by such a savage path. After 
travelling through a couple of lines of wall with plantations on 
either side, I at length became impatient as to the forest, and, 
much to my disappointment, was told this was it. For the fact 
is, that though the forest has always been there, the trees have 
not, the proprietors cutting them regularly when grown to no 
great height, and the monarchs of the woods which I saw round 
about would scarcely have afforded timber for a bed-post. 
Nor did any robbers make their appearance in this wilderness : 
with which disappointment, however, I was more willing to put 
up than with the former one. 

But if the wood and the robbers did not come up to my 
romantic notions, the old Castle of Bunratty fully answered 
them, and indeed should be made the scene of a romance, in 
three volumes at least. 

" It is a huge, square tower, with four smaller ones at each 
angle ; and 3^ou mount to the entrance b^^ a steep flight of steps, 
being commanded all the way b}^ the cross-bows of two of the 
Lord De Clare's retainers, the points of whose weapons ma}^ be 
seen lying upon the ledge of the little narrow meurtriere on each 
side of the gate. A venerabh^ seneschal, with the ke3'S of 
office, presently opens the little back postern, and you are 
admitted to the great hall — a noble chamber, pardi ! some 
seventy feet in length and thirty high. 'Tis hung round with a 
thousand trophies of war and chase, — the golden helmet and 
spear of the Irish king, the long yellow mantle he wore, and the 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 131 

huge brooch that bound it. Hugo De Clare slew him before 
the castle in 1305, when he and his kernes attacked it. Less 
successful in 1314, the gallant Hugo saw his village of Bun- 
ratty burned round his tower by the son of the slaughtered 
O'Neil; and, sallying out to avenge the insult, was brought 
back — a corpse! Ah! what was the pang that shot through 
the fair bosom of the Lady Adela when she knew that 'twas the 
hand of Redmond O'Neil sped the shaft which slew her sire ! 

"You listen to this sad story, reposing on an oaken settle 
(covered with deer's-skin taken in the aboriginal forest of Car- 
clow hard by) placed at the enormous hall-fire. Here sits 
Thonom an Diaoul, ' Dark Thomas,' the blind harper of the 
race of De Clare, who loves to tell the deeds of the lordly family. 
' Penetrating in disguise,' he continues, ' into the castle, Red- 
mond of the golden locks sought an interview with the Lily of 
Bunratt}' ; but she screamed when she saw him under the dis- 
guise of the gleeman, and said, " My father's blood is in the 
hall!" At this, up started fierce Sir Ranulph. "Ho, Blud- 
yer ! " he cried to his squire, " call me the hangman and Father 
John ;• seize me, vassals, 3-on villain in gleeman's guise, and 
hang him on the gallows on the tower ! " ' 

' ' ' Will it please ye walk to the roof of the old castle and see 
the beam on which the lords of the place execute the refractory ? ' 
' Nay, marry,' say you, ' by my spurs of knighthood, I have 
seen' hanging enough in merry England, and care not to see the 
gibbets of Irish kernes.' The harper would have taken fire at 
this speech reflecting on his country ; but luckily here Gulph, 
your English squire entered from the pantler (with whom he 
had been holding a parley), and brought a manchet of bread, 
and bade ye, in the Lord De Clare's name, cru^ a cup of 
Ypocras, well spiced, pardi^ and by the fair hands of the Lady 
Adela. 

" ' The Lady Adela ! ' say you, starting up in amaze. ' Is 
not this the year of grace 1600, and lived she not three hundred 
years syne ? ' 

" ' Yes, Sir Knight, but Bunratty tower hath another Lily : 
will it please you see your chamber ? ' 

" So saying, the seneschal leads you up a winding stair in 
one of the turrets, ^xist one little dark chamber and another, 
without a fireplace, without rushes (how different from the 
stately houses of Nonsuch or Audley End !), and, leading you 
through another vast chamber above the baronial hall, similar 
in size, but decorated with tapestries and rude carvings, you 
pass the little chapel (' Marry,' says the steward, ' many would 



132 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

it not hold, and many do not come ! ') until at last j^ou are 
located in the little cell appropriated to 3^ou. Some rude 
attempts have been made to render it fitting for the stranger ; 
but, though more neatly arranged than the hundred other little 
chambers which the castle contains, in sooth 'tis scarce fitted 
for the serving-man, much more for Sir Reginald, the English 
knight. 

'' While 3'ou are looking at a bouquet of flowers, which lies on 
the settle — magnolias, geraniums, llie blue flowers of the cactus, 
and in the midst of the bouquet, one lily ; whilst 3^ou wonder 
whose fair hands could have culled the flowers — hark ! the 
horns are blowing at the drawbridge and the warder lets the 
portcullis down. You rush to your window, a stalwart knight 
rides over the gate, the hoofs of his black courser clanging upon 
the planks. A host of wild retainers wait round about him : 
see, four of them carry a stag, that hath been slain no doubt in 
the aboriginal forest of Carclow. ' By my fay ! ' say you, ' 'tis 
a stag of ten.' 

" But who is that yonder on the graj' palfrey, conversing so 
prettily, and holding the sportive animal with so light a rein? 
— a light green riding-habit and ruff, a little hat with a green 
plume — sure it must be a lady, and a fair one. She looks up. 
O blessed Mother of Heaven, that look ! those eyes that smile, 
those sunny golden ringlets ! It is — it is the Lady Adela : the 
Lily of Bunrat ..." 

If the reader cannot finish the other two volumes for him or 
herself, he or she never deserves to have a novel from a circu- 
lating library again : for m^' part, I will take my affidavit the 
English l^iight will marry the Lily at the end of the third 
volume, having previousl3^ slain the other suitor at one of the 
multifiirious sieges of Limerick. And I beg to sa3^ that the 
historical part of this romance has been extracted carefull3' 
from the Guide-book : the topographical and descriptive portion 
being studied on the spot. A policeman shows 3'OU over it, 
halls, chapels, galleries, gibbets and all. The huge old tower 
was, until late years, inhabited by the family of the proprietor, 
who built himself a house in the midst of it : but he has since 
built another in the park opposite, and half a dozen " Peelers," 
with a commodity of wives and children,. now inhabit Bunratty. 
On the gate where we entered were numerous placards offering 
rewards for the apprehension of various countr3' offenders ; and 
a turnpike, a bridge, and a qua)' have sprung up from the place 
which Red Redmond (or anybod3' else) burned. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 133 

On our road to Galwa}- the next day, we were can-ied once 
more by the old tower, and for a considerable distance along 
the fertile banks of the Fergus lake, and a river which pours 
itself into the Shannon. The first town we come to is Castle 
Clare, which Ues conveniently on the river, with a castle, a good 
brido'e, and many quays and warehouses, near which a small 
ship or two were lying. The place was once the chief town of 
the county, but is wretched and ruinous now, being made up 
for the most part of miserable thatched cots, round which you 
see the usual dusky population. The drive hence to Ennis lies 
through a country which is by no means so pleasant as that rich 
one we have passed through, being succeeded " by that craggy, 
bleak, pastoral district which occupies so large a portion of the 
limestone district of Clare." Ennis, likewise, stands upon the 
Fergus — a busy little narrow-streeted, foreign-looking town, 
approached by half a mile of thatched cots, in which I am not 
ashamed to confess that I saw some as pretty faces as over 
any half-mile of country I ever travelled in my life. 

A great light of the Catholic Church, who was of late a 
candlestick in our own communion, was on the coach with us, 
reading devoutly out of a breviary on many occasions along the 
road. A crowd of black coats and heads, with that indescrib- 
able look which belongs to the Catholic clergy, were evidently 
on the look-out for the coach ; and as it stopped, one of them 
came up to me with a low bow, and asked if I was the Honor- 
able and Reverend Mr. S ? How I wish I had answered 

him I was ! It would have been a grand scene. The respect 
paid to this gentleman's descent is quite absurd : the papers 
bandy his title about with pleased emphasis — the Galway paper 
calls him the very reverend. There is something in the love 
for rank almost childish : witness the adoration of George IV. ; 
the pompous joy with which John Tuam records his correspond- 
ence with a great man ; the continual My-Lording of the Bishops, 
the Right-Honorabling of Mr. O'Connell — which title his party 
papers delight on all occasions to give him — nay, the delight 
of that great man himself when first he attained the dignity : 
he figured in his robes in the most good-humored simple dehght 
at having them, and went to church forthwith in them ; as if 
such a man wanted a title before his name. 

At Ennis, as well as everywhere else in Ireland, there were 
of course the regular number ot swaggering-looking buckeens 
and shabby-genteel idlers to watch the arrival of the mail- 
coach. A poor old idiot, with his gray hair tied up in bows, 
and with a ribbon behind, thrust out a very fair soft hand with 



134 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

taper fingers, and told me, nodding his head verj' wistfiilh', 
that he had no father nor mother : upon which score he got a 
penny. Nor did the other beggnrs round the carnage who got 
none seem to grudge the poor fcilovv's good fortune. I think 
when one poor wretch has ^ piece of luck, the others seem glad 
here : and they promise to pray for you just the same if you 
give as if you refuse. 

The town was swarming with people ; the little dark streets, 
which twist about in all dii'ections, being full of cheap mer- 
chandise and its venders. Whether there are mau}^ buyers, I 
can't say. This is written opposite the market place in Gal- 
way, where I have watched a stall a hundred times in the 
course of the last three hours and seen no money taken : but 
at every place I come to, I can't help wondering at the num- 
bers ; it seems market-day ever^^where — apples, pigs, and 
potatoes being sold all over the kingdom. There seem to be 
some good shops in those narrow streets ; among others, a 
decent little librarj', where I bought, for eighteenpence, six 
volumes of works strictly Irish, that will serve for a half-hour's 
gossip on the next rainy day. 

The road hence to Gort carried us at first by some dismal, 
lonety-looking, reedy lakes, through a melancholy country ; an 
open village standing here and there, with a big chapel in the 
midst of it, almost always unfinished in some point or other. 
Crossing at a bridge near a place called Tubbor, the coachman 
told us we were in the famous county of Galwa}^, which all 
readers of novels admire in the warlike works of Maxwell and 
Lever; and, dismal as the country had been in Clare, I think 
on the northern side of the bridge it was dismaller still — the 
stones not only appearing in the character of hedges, but strew- 
ing over whole fields, in which sheep were browsing as well as 
they could. 

We rode for miles through this stony, dismal district, seeing 
more lakes now and anon, with fellows spearing eels in the 
midst. Then we passed the plantations of Lord Gort's Castle 
of Loughcooter, and presently came to the town which bears 
his name, or vice versa. It is a regularh'-built little place, with 
a square and street : but it looked as if it wondered how the 
deuce it got into the midst of such a desolate countr}-, and 
seemed to bore itself there considerably. It had nothing to do, 
and no society. 

A short time before arriving at Oranmore, one has glimpses 
of the sea, which comes opportunely to relieve the dulness of 
the land. Between Gort and that place we passed through 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 135 

little but the most woful country, in the midst of which was a 
village, where a horse-fair was held, and where (upon the word 
of the coachman) all the bad horses of the country were to be 
seen. The man was commissioned, no doubt, to bu}- for his 
employers, for two or three merchants were on the look-out 
for him, and trotted out their cattle by the side of the coach. 
A very good, neat-looking, smart-trotting chestnut horse, of 
seven years old, was offered by the owner for 8^. ; a neat brown 
mare for 10/., and a better (as I presume) for 14/. ; but all 
looked very respectable, and I have the coachman's word for it 
that they were good serviceable horses. Oranmore, with an 
old castle in the midst of the village, woods, and park-planta- 
tions round about, and the bay be3'0nd it, has a pretty and 
romantic look ; and the drive, of about four miles thence to 
Galwa}'', is the most picturesque part perhaps of the fifty miles' 
ride from Limerick. The, road is tolerably wooded. You see 
the town itself, with its huge old church-tower, stretching along 
the ba}^ " backed b}^ hills linking into the long chain of moun- 
tains which stretch across Connemara and the Jo3^ce country." 
A suburb of cots that seems almost endless has, however, an 
end at last among the houses of the town ; and a little fleet of 
a couple of hundred fishing-boats was manoeuvring in the bright 
waters of the bay. 



CHAPTER XV. 

GALWAY — "KILROT's HOTEL " GAL WAT NIGHTS' ENTERTAIN- 
MENTS — FIRST NIGHT : AN EVENING WITH CAPTAIN FREENY. 

When it is stated that, throughout the town of Galway, you 
cannot get a cigar which costs more than twopence, Londoners 
may imagine the strangeness and remoteness of the place. The 
rain poured down for two da3^s after our arrival at " Kilroy's 
Hotel." An umbrella under such circumstances is a poor 
resource : self-contemplation is far more amusing ; especially 
smoking, and a game at cards, if an}- one will be so good as to 
play. 

But there was no one in the hotel coffee-room who wag 
inclined for the sport. The compaii}^ there, on the da}^ of 
our arrival, consisted of two coach-passengers, — a Frenchman 



136 THE. IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

who came from Sligo, and ordered mutton-chops and fraid 
potatoes for dinner % himself, a turbot which cost two shil- 
lings, and in Billingsgate would have been worth a guinea, 
and a couple of native or inhabitant bachelors, who frequented 
the table-d'hote. 

B3' the way, besides these there were at dinner two turkeys 
(so that Mr. Kilroy's two-shilling ordinar}' was by no means 
ill supplied) ; and, as a stranger, I had the honor of carving 
these animals, which were dispensed in rather a singular way. 
There are, as it is generally known, to two turke3^s four wings. 
Of the four passengers, one ate no turkey, one had a pinion, 
another the remaining part of the wing, and the fourth gentle- 
man took the other three wings for his share. Does ever^'body 
in Galwa}^ eat three wings when there are two turke^^s for din- 
ner? One has heard wonders of the countr}-, — the dashing, 
daring, duelling, desperate, rollicking, whiskey-drinking people : 
but this wonder beats all. When I asked the Galway turki- 
phagus (there is no other word, for Turkey was invented long 
after Greece) " if he would take a third wing?" with a peculiar 
satiric accent on the words third wing^ which cannot be expressed 
in writing, but which the occasion full}- merited, I thought per- 
haps that, following the custom of the country, where everj'bod}^, 
according to Maxwell and Lever, challenges everybody else, — 
I thought the Galwagian would call me out ; but no such thing. 
He only said, " If 3'ou plase, sir," in the blandest way in the 
world ; and gobbled up the limb in a twinkling. 

As an encouragement, too, for persons meditating that 
important change of condition, the gentleman was a teetotal- 
er : he took but one glass of water to that intolerable deal of 
bubbl3Jock. Galway must be ver3^ much changed since the 
da3'S when Maxwell and Lever knew it. Three turkej^-wings 
and a glass of water ! But the man cannot be the representa- 
tive of a class, that is clear : it is physicalW and arithmeticall3' 
impossible. The3^ can't all eat three wings of two turke3's at 
dinner ; the turke3^s could not stand it, let alone the men. These 
wings must have been " non usitatse (nee tenues) pennae." But 
no more of these flights ; let us come to sober realities. 

The fact is, that when the rain is pouring down in the streets 
the traveller has little else to remark except these peculiarities 
of his fellow-travellers and inn-sojourners ; and, lest one should 
be led into further personalities, it is best to quit that water- 
drinking gormandizer at once, and retiring to a private apart- 
ment, to devote one's self to quiet observation and the acquisition 
of knowledge, either by looking out of the window and examin- 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 137 

ing mankind, or b}^ perusing books, and so living with past 
heroes and ages. 

As for the knowledge to be had by looking out of window, 
it is this evening not much. A great, wide, blank, bleak, water- 
whipped square lies before the bedroom wnndow ; at the oppo- 
site side of which is to be seen the opposition hotel, looking 
even more bleak and cheerless than that over which Mr. Kilro}^ 
presides. Large dismal warehouses and private houses form 
three sides of the square ; and in the midst is a bare pleasure- 
ground surrounded by a growth of gaunt iron-railings, the onlj^ 
plants seemingly in the place. Three triangular edifices that 
look somewhat like gibbets stand in the paved part of the 
square, but the victims that are consigned to their fate under 
these triangles are only potatoes, w^hich are weighed there ; and, 
in spite of the torrents of rain, a crowd of barefooted, red-pet- 
ticoated women, and men in gray coats and flower-pot hats, are 
pursuing their little bargains with the utmost calmness. The 
rain seems to make no impression on the males ; nor do the 
women guard against it more than by flinging a petticoat over 
their heads, and so stand bargaining and chattering in Irish, 
their figures indefinitel}^ refiected in the shining, varnished pave- 
ment. Donkeys and pony-carts innumerable stand around, 
similarly reflected ; and in the baskets upon these vehicles j'ou 
see shoals of herrings lying. After a short space this prospect 
becomes somewhat tedious, and one looks to other sources of 
consolation. 

The eighteenpenny worth of little books purchased at Ennis 
in the morning came here most agreeably to my aid ; and indeed 
they afford man}^ a pleasant hour's reading. Like the " Biblio- 
theque Grise," which one sees in the French cottages in the 
provinces, and the German " Volksbucher," both of which 
contain stores of old legends that are still treasured in the 
country, these yellow-covered books are prepared for the people 
chiefl}^ ; and have been sold for many long ^^ears before the 
march of knowledge began to banish Fancy out of the world, 
and gave us, in place of the old fairy tales, Penn}^ Magazines 
and similar wholesome works. Where are the little harlequin- 
backed story-books that used to be read bv children in Eng- 
land some thirty j^ars ago ? Where such authentic narratives 
as "Captain Bruce's Travels," "The Dreadful Adventures of 
Sawne}^ Bean," &c., which were commonl}^ supplied to the 
little boys at school by the same old lady who sold oranges 
and alycompayne? — they are all gone out of the world, and 
replaced by such books as "Conversations on Chemistry," 



138 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

"The Little Geologist," "Peter Parley's Tales about the 
Binomial Theorem," and the like. The world will be a dull 
world some hundreds of years hence, when Fanc^^ shall be 
dead, and ruthless Science (that has no more bowels than a 
steam-engine) has killed her. 

It is a comfort, meanwhile, to come on occasions on some of 
the good old stories and biographies. These books were evi- 
dently written before the useful had attained its present detest- 
able popularit3^ There is nothing useful /zere, that's certain : 
and a man will be puzzled to extract a precise moral out of the 
" Adventures of Mr. James Freeny ;" or out of the legends in 
the "Hibernian Tales," or out of the lamentable tragedy of 
the "Battle of Aughrim," writ in most doleful Anglo-Irish 
verse. But are we to reject all things that have not a moral 
tacked to them? "Is there an3^ moral shut within the bosom 
of the rose?" And yet, as the same noble poet sings (giving 
a smart slap to the utihty people the while), "useful apphca- 
tions lie in art and nature," and ever}^ man ma}' find a moral 
suited to his mind in them ; or, if not a moral, an occasion for 
moralizing. 

Honest Freeny's adventures (let us begin with history and 
historic tragedy, and leave fancy for future consideration) , if 
they have a moral, have that dubious one which the poet admits 
may be elicited from a rose ; and which ever}' man may select 
according to his mind. And surely this is a far better and 
more comfortable S3'stem of moralizing than that in the fable- 
books, where you are obUged to accept the stor}^ with the in- 
evitable moral corollary that will stick close to it. 

Whereas, in Freeny's life, one man may see the evil of drink- 
ing, another the harm of horse-racing, another the danger at- 
tendant on early marriage, a fourth the exceeding inconvenience 
as well as hazard of the heroic highwa3'man's life — which a 
certain Ainsworth, in company with a certain Cruikshank, has 
represented as so poetic and brilliant, so prodigal of delightful 
adventure, so adorned with champagne, gold-lace, and brocade. 

And the best part of worthy Freeny's tale is the noble 
naivete and simplicity of the hero as he recounts his own adven- 
tures, and the utter" unconsciousness that he is narrating any- 
thing wonderful. It is the wa}' of all great men, who recite their 
great actions modestl}', and as if they were matters of course ; 
as indeed to them they are. A common tyro, having perpe- 
trated a great deed, would be amazed and flurried at his own 
action ; whereas I make no doubt the Duke of Wellington, after 
\ great victory, took his tea and went to bed just as quietly as 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 139 

he would after a dull debate in the House of Lords. And so 
with Freeny, — his great and charming characteristic is grave 
simplicity : he does his work ; he knows his danger as well as 
another ; but he goes through his fearful duty quite quietly and 
easily, and not with the least air of bravado, or the smallest 
notion that he is doing anything uncommon. 

It is related of Carter, the Lion-King, that when he was a 
bo3% and exceedingly fond of gingerbread-nuts, a relation gave 
him a parcel of those delicious cakes, which the child put in his 
pocket just as he was called on to go into a cage with a very 
large and roaring lion. He had to put his head into the forest- 
monarch's jaws, and leave it there for a considerable time, to 
the delight of thousands : as is even now the case ; and the 
interest was so much the greater, as the child was exceedingly 
innocent, rosy-cheeked, and pretty. To have seen that little 
flaxen head bitten off by the lion would have been a far more 
pathetic spectacle than that of the decapitation of some gray- 
bearded old unromantic keeper, who had served out raw meat 
and stirred up the animals with a pole any time these twenty 
years : and the interest rose in consequence. 

While the little darling's head was thus enjawed, what was 
the astonishment of everybody to see him put his hand into his 
little pocket, take out a paper — from the paper a gingerbread- 
nut — pop that gingerbread- nut into the lion's mouth, then into 
his own, and so finish at least two-pennyworth of nuts ! 

The excitement was delirious : the ladies, when he came out 
of chancery, were for doing what the lion had not done, and 
eating him up — with kisses. And the onl}' remark the young 
hero made was, "Uncle, them nuts wasn't so crisp as them I 
had t'other day." He never thought of the danger, — he only 
thought of the nuts. 

Thus it is with Freeny. It is fine to mark his bravery, 
and to see how he cracks his simple philosophic nuts in the jaws 
of innumerable lions. 

At the commencement of the last centur}^ honest Freeny's 
father was house-steward in the family of Joseph Robbins, 
Esq., of Ballyduff ; and, manning Alice Phelan, a maid-ser- 
vant in the same family, had issue James, the celebrated Irish 
hero. At a proper age James was put to school ; but being a 
nimble, active lad, and his father's mistress taking a fancy to 
him, he was presentl}^ brought to Ballyduff, where she had a 
private tutor to instruct him during the time which he could 
spare from his professional dut}', which was that of pantry-boy 
in Mr. Robbins's establishment. At an early age he began to 



140 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

neglect his dut}' ; and although his father, at the excellent Mrs. 
Robbins's suggestion, corrected him ver}^ severely, the bent of 
his genius was not to be warped by the rod, and he attended 
"all the little country dances, diversions and meetings, and 
became what is called a good dancer ; his own natural inclina- 
tions hurrying him" (as he finely says) "into the contrary 
diversions." 

He was scarce twenty years old when he married (a frightful 
proof of the wicked recklessness of his former courses), and 
set up in trade in Waterford ; where, however, matters went 
so ill with him, that he was speedily without mone}-, and 50/. in 
debt. He had, he says, not anyway of paying the debt, except 
by selling his furniture or his riding-mare^ to both of which 
measures he was averse : for where is the gentleman in Ireland 
that can do without a horse to ride? Mr. Freeny and his 
riding-mare became soon famous, insomuch that a thief in gaol 
warned the magistrates of Kilkenny to beware of a one-eyed 
man with a mare. 

These unhappy circumstances sent him on the highway to 
seek a maintenance, and his first exploit was to rob a gentleman 
of fifty pounds ; then he attacked another, against whom he 
" had a secret disgust^ because this gentleman had prevented his 
former master from giving him a suit of clothes ! " 

Urged by a noble resentment against this gentleman, Mr. 
Freeny, in company with a friend b3^the name of Redd}', robbed 
the gentleman's house, taking therein 70/. in mone}', which was 
honorably divided among the captors. 

"We then," continues Mr. Freeny, " quitted the house with 
the booty, and came to Thomastown ; but not knowing how to 
dispose of the plate, left it withReddy, who said he had a friend 
from whom he would get cash for it. ' In some time after- 
wards I asked him for the dividend of the cash he got for the 
plate, but all the satisfaction he gave me was, that it was. lost, 
which occasioned me to have my own opinion of him. ^* 

Mr. Freeny then robbed Sir WiUiam Fownes' servant of 14/., 
in such an artful manner that everybody beheved the servant 
had himself secreted the money ; and no doubt the rascal was 
turned adrift, and starved in consequence — a truly comic in- 
cident, and one that could be used, so as to provoke a great 
deal of laughter, in an historical work of which our champion 
should be the hero. 

The next enterprise of importance is that against the house 
of Colonel Palliser, which Freeny thus picturesquely describes. 
Coming with one of his spies close up to the house, Mr. Freeny 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 141 

watched the Colonel lighted to bed by a servant ; and thus, 
as he cleverly says, could judge " of the room the Colonel 
lay in." 

" Some time afterwards," says Freeny, " I observed a light 
up stairs, by which I judged the servants were going to bed, 
and soon after observed that the candles were aU quenched, by 
which I assured m3'self the}' were all gone to bed. I then came 
back to where the men were, and appointed Bulger, Motley, 
and Commons to go in along with me ; but Commons answered 
that he never had been in Siuy house before where there were 
arms : upon which I asked the coward what business he had 
there, and swore I would as soon shoot him as look at him, 
and at the same time cocked a pistol to his breast ; but the rest 
of the men prevailed upon me to leave him at the back of the 
house, where he might run away when he thought proper. 

" I then asked Grace where did he choose to be posted : he 
answered ' that he would go where I pleased to order him,' for 
which I thanked him. We then immediately came up to the 
house, lighted our candles, put Houlahan at the back of the 
house to prevent an}^ person from coming out that way, and 
placed Hacket on my mare, well armed, at the front; and I 
then broke one of the windows with a sledge, whereupon Bulger, 
Motle}^ Grace, and I got in ; upon which I ordered Motlej' and 
Grace to go up stairs, and Bulger and I would sta}' below, where 
we thought the greatest danger would be ; but I immediately, 
upon second consideration, for fear Motle}' or Grace should be 
daunted, desired Bulger to go up with them, and when he had 
fixed matters above, to come down, as I judged the Colonel 
lay below. I then went to the room where the Colonel was, 
and burst open the door ; upon which he said, ' Odds-wounds ! 
who's there?' to which I answered, 'A friend, sir;' upon 
which he said, ' You lie ! b}^ G-d, you are no friend of mine ! ' 
I then said that I was, and his relation also, and that if he 
viewed me close he would know me, and begged of him not to 
be angr\- : upon which I immediately seized a bullet-gun and 
case of pistols, which I observed hanging up in his room. I 
then quitted his room, and walked round the lower part of the 
house, thinking to meet some of the servants, ivhom I thought 
would strive to make their escape from the men who were 
above, and meeting none of them, I immediately returned to 
the Colonel's room ; where I no sooner entered than he desired 
me to go out for a villain, and asked why I bred such disturb- 
ance in his house at that time of night. At the same time I 
snatched his breeches from under his head, wherein I got a 



142 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

small purse of gold, and said that abuse was not fit treatment 
for me who was his relation, and that it would hinder me of 
calling to see him again. I then demanded the ke}^ of his desk 
which stood in his room ; he answered he had no key ; upon 
which I said I had a very good key ; at the same time giving it 
a stroke with the sledge, which burst it open, wherein I got a 
purse of ninety guineas, a four-pound piece, two moidores. 
some small gold, and a large glove with twent^^-eight guineas 
in silver. 

" By this time Bulger and Motley came down stairs to me, 
after rifling the house above. We then observed a closet inside 
his room, which we soon entered, and got therein a basket 
wherein there was plate to the value of three hundred pounds." 

And so they took leave of Colonel Palliser, and rode away 
with their earnings. 

The story, as here narrated, has that simplicity which is be- 
3'ond the reach of all except the very highest art ; and it is not 
high art certainly- which Mr. Freeny can be said to possess, 
but a noble nature rather, which leads him thus grandty to de- 
scribe scenes wherein he acted a great part. With what a gal- 
lant determination does he inform the coward Commons that 
be would shoot him ' ' as soon as look at Mm ; " and how dread- 
ful he must have looked (with his one eye) as he uttered that 
sentiment ! But he left him, he sa3'S with a grim humor, at the 
back of the house, " where he might run awa^^when he thought 
proper." The Duke of Wellington must have read Mr. Freeny's 
history in his youth (his Grace's birthplace is not far from 
the scene of the other gallant Irishman's exploit), for the Duke 
acted in precisely a similar way by a Belgian Colonel at Wa- 
terloo. 

It must be painful to great and successful commanders to 
think how their gallant comrades and lieutenants, partners of 
their toil, their feelings, and their fame, are separated from 
them by time, by death, hy estrangement — na}^, sometimes 
b}^ treason. Commons is off, disappearing noiseless into the 
deep night, whilst his comrades perform the work of danger ; 
and Bulger, — Bulger, who in the above scene acts so gallant 
a part, and in whom Mr. Freeny places so much confidence — 
actually went away to England, carr3'ing off " some plate, 
some shirts, a gold watch, and a diamond ring " of the Cap- 
tain's ; and, though he returned to his native country, the 
valuables did not return with him, on which the Captain swore 
he would blow his brains out. As for poor Grace, he was 
hanged, much to his leader's sorrow, who says of him that he 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 143 

was " the faithfullest of his spies." Motley was sent to Naas 
gaol for the veiy robbery : and though Captain Freeny does 
not mention his ultimate fate, 'tis probable he was hanged too. 
Indeed, the warrior's life is a hard one, and over misfortunes like 
these the feeling heart cannot but sigh. 

But, putting out of the question the conduct and fate of the 
Captain's associates, let us look to his own behavior as a leader. 
It is impossible not to admire his serenity, his dexterity, that 
dashing impetuosity in the moment of action and that aquiUne 
coup-d'ceil which belong to but few generals. He it is who 
leads the assault, smashing in the window with a sledge ; he 
bursts open the Colonel's door, who says (naturall^^ enough) , 
" Odds- wounds ! who's there?" " A friend, sir," says Freeny. 
" You lie,! by G-d, 3'ou are no friend of mine ! " roars the mili- 
tar}" blasphemer. " I then said that I was, and Ms relation also, 
and that if he viewed me close he would know me, and begged 
of him not to be angry : upon which I immediately seized a brace 
of pistols which I observed hanging up in his room." That is 
something like presence of mind : none of your brutal bragga- 
docio work, but neat, wary — nay, sportive bearing in the face 
of danger. And again, on the second visit to the Colonel's 
room, when the latter bids him " go out for a villain, and not 
breed a disturbance," what reply makes Freeny? '-'- At the 
same time 1 snatched his breeches from under his head." A com- 
mon man would never have thought of looking for them in such 
a place at all. The difficult}^ about the key he resolves in quite 
an Alexandrian manner ; ^nd from the specimen we already 
have had of the Colonel's style of speaking, we ma}' fancy how 
ferociously he lay in bed and swore, after Captain Freeny and 
his friends had disappeared with the ninety guineas, the moi- 
dores, the four-pound piece, and the glove with twenty-eight 
guineas in silver. 

As for the plate, he hid it in a wood ; and then, being out of 
danger, he sat down and paid everybody his deserts. By the 
wa}', what a strange difference of opinion is there about a 
man's deserts! Here sits Captain Freeny with a company of 
gentlemen, and awards them a handsome sum of money for an 
action which other people would have remunerated with a hal- 
ter. Which are right? perhaps both: but at an}^ rate it will 
be admitted that the Captain takes the humane view of the 
question. 

The greatest enemy Captain Freeny had was Counsellor 
Bobbins, a son of his old patron, and one of the most de- 
termined thief-pursuers the country ever knew. But though 



144 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

he was untiring in his efforts to capture (and of course to hang) 
Mr. Freeny, and though the latter was strongly urged b}' his 
friends to blow the Counsellor's brains out : yet, to his im- 
mortal honor it is said, he refused that temptation, agreeable 
as it was, declaring that he had eaten too much of that family's 
bread ever to take the life of one of them, and being besides 
quite aware that the Counsellor was only acting against him in 
a public capacity. He respected him, in fact, like an honora- 
ble though terrible adversar3\ 

How deep a stratagem inventor the Counsellor was may be 
gathered from the following narration of one of his plans : — 

" Counsellor Robbins fniding his brother had not got intelli- 
gence that was sufficient to carry any reasonable foundation for 
apprehending us, walked out as if merely for exercise, till he 
met with a person whom he thought he could confide in, and 
desired the person to meet him at a private place appointed for 
that purpose, which they did ; and he told that person he had a 
ver}^ good opinion of him, from the character received from his 
father of him, and from his own knowledge of him, and hoped 
that the person would then show him that such opinion was not 
ill founded. The person assuring the Counsellor he would do 
all in his power to serve and oblige him, the Counsellor told 
him how greatlj^ he was concerned to hear the scandalous char- 
acter that part of the country (which had formerly been an 
honest one) had lately fallen into ; that it was said that a gang 
of robbers who disturbed the countrj^ lived thereabouts. The 
person told him he was afraid what he said was too true ; and, 
on being asked whom he suspected, he named the same four 
persons Mr. Robbins had, but said he dare not, for fear of being 
murdered, be too inquisitive, and therefore could not say anything 
material. The Counsellor asked him if he knew where there was 
any private ale to be sold ; and he said MoU Burke, who lived 
near the end of Mr. Robbins's avenue, had a barrel or half a 
barrel. The Counsellor then gave the person a moidore, and 
desired him to go to Thomastown and buy two or three gallons 
of whiskey, and bring it to Moll Burke's, and invite as many as 
he suspected to be either principals or accessories to take a 
drink, and make them drink very heartily, and when he found 
they were fuddled, and not sooner, to tell some of the hastiest 
that some other had said some bad things of them, so as to 
provoke them to abuse and quarrel with each other ; and then, 
probabl}^ in their liquor and passion, they might make some 
discoveries of each other, as ma}^ enable the Counsellor to get 
some one of the gang to discover and accuse the rest. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 145 

"The person accordingly got the whiske}^ and invited a 
good many to drink ; but the Counsellor beiug then at his 
brother's, a few only went to Moll Burke's, the rest being afraid 
to venture while the Counsellor was in the neighborhood : 
among those who met there was one Moll Broph3', the wife of 
Mr. Robbins's smith, and one Edmund or Edward Stapleton, 
otherwise Gaul, who lived thereabouts ; and when the}' had 
drank plentifully, the Counsellor's spy told Moll Brophy that 
Gaul had said she had gone astray with some persons or other : 
she then abused Gaul, and told him he was one of Freeny's 
accomplices, for that he, Gaul, had told her he had seen 
Colonel Palliser's watch with Freeny, and that Freeny had told 
him, Gaul, that John Welsh and the two Graces had been with 
him at the robber}'. 

" The company on their quarrel broke up, and the next 
morning the spy met the Counsellor at the place appointed, at 
a distance from Mr. Robbins's house, to prevent suspicion, and 
there told the Counsellor what intelligence he had got. The 
Counsellor not being then a justice of the peace, got his brother 
to send for Moll Brophy, to be examined ; but when she came, 
she refused to be sworn or to give any evidence, and thereupon 
the Counsellor had her tied and put on a car, in order to be 
carried to gaol on a mittimus from Mr. Robbins, for refusing to 
give evidence on behalf of the Crown. When she found she 
would reall}^ be sent to gaol, she submitted to be sworn, and 
the Counsellor drew from her what she had said the night 
before, and something further, and desired her not to tell any- 
body what she had sworn." 

But if the Counsellor was acute, were there not others as 
clever as he? For when, in consequence of the information of 
Mrs. Brophy, some gentlemen who had been engaged in the 
burglarious enterprises in which Mr. Freeny obtained so much 
honor were seized and tried, Freeny came forward with the 
best of arguments hi their favor. Indeed, it is fine to see these 
two great spirits matched one against the other, — the Coun- 
sellor, with all the regular force of the country to back 
him, — the Highway General, with but the wild resources of 
his gallant genius, and with cunning and bravery for his chief 
allies. 

" I lay by for a considerable time after, and concluded 
within myself to do no more mischief till after the assizes, 
when I would hear how it went with the men who were then 
In confinement. Some time before the assizes Counsellot 
Robbins came to Ballyduff, and told his brother that he be- 

10 



146 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

lieved Anderson and Welsh were guilty, and also said he 
would endeavor to have them both hanged ; of which I was 
informed. 

" Soon after, I went to the house of one George Roberts, 
who asked me if I had any regard for those fellows who were 
then confined (meaning Anderson and Welsh). I told him I 
had a regard for one of them : upon which he said he had a 
friend who was a man of power and interest, — that he would 
save either of them, provided I would give him five guineas. I 
told him I would give him ten, and the first gold watch I could 
get ; whereupon he said that it was of no use to speak to his 
friend without the money or value, for that he was a mercenar}^ 
man : on which I told Roberts I had not so much money at that 
time, but that I would give him my watch as a pledge to give 
his friend. I then gave him my watch, and desired him to 
engage that I would pay the money which I promised to pay, 
or give value for it in plate, in two or three nights after ; upon 
which he engaged that his friend would act the needful. Then 
we appointed a night to meet, and we according!}^ met ; and 
Roberts told me that his friend agreed to save Anderson and 
Welsh from the gallows ; whereupon I gave him a plate tank- 
ard, value 10/., a large ladle, value 4Z., with some tablespoons. 
The assizes of Kilkenny, in spring, 1748, coming on soon after, 
Counsellor Robbins had Welsh transmitted from Naas to Kil- 
kenn}^, in order to give evidence against Anderson and Welsh ; 
and they were tried for Mrs. Mounford's robber}^ on the evi- 
dence of John Welsh and others. The physic working well, six 
of the jury were for finding them guilty, and six more for ac- 
quitting them ; and the other six finding them peremptory, and 
that they were resolved to starve the others into compliance, as 
they say they ma}^ do by law, were for their own sakes obliged 
to comply with them, and they were acquitted. On which 
Counsellor Robbins began to smoke the aff'air, and suspect the 
operation of gold dust, which was well applied for my com- 
rades, and thereupon left the court in a rage, and swore he 
would for ever quit the country, since he found people were 
not satisfied with protecting and saving the rogues they had 
under themselves, but must also show that they could and 
would oblige others to have rogues under them whether they 
would or no." 

Here Counsellor Robbins certainly loses that greatness which 
has distinguished him in his former attack on Freeny ; the 
Counsellor is defeated and loses his temper. Like Napoleon, 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK:. 147 

he is unequal to reverses : in adverse fortune his presence of 
mind deserts him. 

But what call had he to be in a passion at all ? It may be 
very well for a man to be in a rage because he is disappointed 
of his prey : so is the hawk, when the dove escapes, in a rage ; 
but let us reflect that, had Counsellor Robbins had his will, two 
honest fellows would have been hanged ; and so let us be 
heartily thankful that he was disappointed, and that these men- 
were acquitted b}^ a jury of their countrjnnen. What right had 
the Counsellor, forsooth, to interfere with their verdict ? Not 
against Irish juries at least does the old satire apply, "And 
culprits hang that jurymen may dine ? " At Kilkenny, on the 
contrary, the jurymen starve in order that the culprits might 
be saved — a noble and humane act of self-denial. 

In another case, stern justice, and the law of self-preserva- 
tion, compelled Mr. Freeny to take a very different course with 
respect to one of his ex-associates. In the former instance we 
have seen him pawning his watch, giving up tankard, table- 
spoons — all, for his suffering friends ; here we have his method 
of dealing with traitors. 

One of his friends, by the name of Dooling, was taken 
prisoner, and condemned to be hanged, which gave Mr. 
Freeny, he says, "a great shock;" but presently this Doo- 
ling's fears were worked upon by some traitors within the gaol, 
and — 

' ' He then consented to discover ; but I had a friend in gaol 
at the same time, one Patrick Healy, who daily insinuated to 
him that it was of no use or advantage to him to discover any- 
thing, as he received sentence of death ; and that, after he had 
made a discover}^, the}'' would leave him as he was, without 
troubling themselves about a reprieve. But notwithstanding, 
he told the gentlemen that there was a man blind of an eye who 
had a hay-mare^ that lived at the other side of Thomastown 
bridge, whom he assured them would be ver}^ troublesome in 
that neighborhood after his death. When Healy discovered 
what he told the gentlemen, he one night took an opportunit}' 
and made Dooling fuddled, and prevailed upon him to take his 
oath he never would give the least hint about me any more. 
He also told him the penalty that attended infringing upon his 
oath — but more especially as he was at that time near his end 
— which had the desired effect ; for he never mentioned my 
name, nor even anything relative to me," and so went out of 
the world repenting of his meditated treason. 

What further exploits Mr. Freen}^ performed may be learned 



148 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

by the curious in his histor}^ : they are all, it need scarcely be 
said, of a similar nature to that noble action which has already 
been described. His escapes from his enemies were marvel- 
lous ; his courage in facing them equall}^ great. He is attacked 
by whole " armies," through which he makes his wa}^ ; wounded, 
he lies in the woods for days together with three bullets in his 
leg, and in this condition manages to escape several " armies" 
that have been marched against him. He is supposed to be 
dead, or travelling on the continent, and suddenly makes his 
appearance in his old haunts, advertising his arrival by robbing 
ten men on the highway in a single da3^ And so terrible is 
his courage, or so popular his manners, that he describes scores 
of laborers looking on while his exploits were performed, and 
not affording the least aid to the roadside traveller whom he 
vanquished. 

But numbers always prevail in the end : what could Leonidas 
himself do against an army ? The gallant band of brothers led 
by Freeny were so pursued by the indefatigable Robbins and 
his myrmidons, that there was no hope left for them, and the 
Captain saw that he must succumb. 

He reasoned, however, with himself (with his usual keen 
logic), and said : " My men must fall, — the world is too strong 
for us, and, to-day, or to-morrow — it matters scarcely when 
— they must yield. They will be hanged for a certainty, and 
thus will disappear the noblest company of knights the world 
has ever seen. 

"But as they will certainly be hanged, and no power of 
mine can save them, is it necessary that I should follow them 
too to the tree ? and will James Bulger's fate be a whit more 
agreeable to him, because James Freeny dangles at his side? 
To suppose so, would be to admit that he was actuated by a 
savage feeling of revenge, which I know belongs not to his 
generous nature." 

In a word, Mr. Freeny resolved to turn king's evidence ; 
for though he swore (in a communication with the implacable 
Robbins) that he would rather die than betray Bulger, yet 
when the Counsellor stated that he must then die, Freeny 
says, " I promised to submit, and understood that Bulger should 
be set.'' 

Accordingl}^ some days afterwards (although the Captain 
carefuU}^ avoids mentioning that he had met his friend with any 
such intentions as those indicated in the last paragraph) he and 
Mr. Bulger came together : and, strangely enough, it was 
agreed that the one was to sleep while the other kept watch ; 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 149 

and, while thus emplo3^ed, the enemy came upon them. But 
let Freenj' describe for himself the last passages of his his- 
tory : 

" We then went to Welsh's house, with a view not to make 
an}^ dela}^ there ; but, taking a glass extraordinarj- after supper, 
Bulger fell asleep. Welsh, in the meantime, told me his house 
was the safest place I could get in that neighborhood, and 
while I remained there J would be very safe, provided that no 
person knew of my coming there (I had not acquainted him 
that Breen knew of my coming that way) . I told Welsh that, 
as Bulger was asleep, I would not go to bed till morning : upon 
which Welsh and I stayed up all night, and in the morning 
Welsh said that he and his wife had a call to Callen, it being 
market-da}'. About nine o'clock I went and awoke Bulger, 
desiring him to get up and guard me whilst I slept, as I guarded 
him all night ; he said he would, and then I went to bed charg- 
ing him to watch close, for fear we should be surprised. I put 
m}' blunderbuss and two cases of pistols under my head, and 
soon fell fast asleep. In two hours after the servant-girl of 
the house, seeing an enemy coming into the j^ard, ran up to 
the room where we were, and said that there were an hundred 
men coming into the 3'ard ; upon which Bulger immediately 
awoke me, and, taking up my blunderbuss, he fired a shot 
towards the door, which wounded Mr. Burgess, one of the 
sheriffs of Kilkenny, of which wound he died. They concluded 
to set the house on fire about us, which they accordingly did ; 
upon which I took my fusee in one hand, and a pistol in the 
other, and Bulger did the like, and as we came out of the door, 
we fired on both sides, imagining it to be the best method of 
dispersing the enemy, who were on both sides of the door. We 
got through them, but the}" fired after us, and as Bulger was 
leaping over a ditch he received a shot in the small of the leg, 
which rendered him incapable of running ; but, getting into a 
field, where I had the ditch between me and the enemy, I still 
walked slowly with Bulger, till I thought the enemj^ were within 
shot of the ditch, and then wheeled back to the ditch and pre- 
sented my fusee at them. The}- all drew back and went for 
their horses to ride round, as the field was wide and open, and 
without cover except the ditch. When I discovered their inten- 
tion I stood in the middle of the field, and one of the gentle- 
men's servants (there were fourteen in number) rode foremost 
towards me ; upon which I told the son of a coward I believed 
he had no more than five pounds a 3'ear from his master, and 
that I would put him in such a condition that his master would 



150 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

not maintain him afterwards. To which he answered that he 
had no view of doing us an}^ harm, but that he was commanded 
b}' his master to ride so near us ; and then immediately rode 
back to the enem}^, who were coming towards him. They rode 
almost within shot of us, and I observed they intended to sur- 
round us in the field, and prevent me from having any recourse 
to the ditch again. Bulger was at this time so bad with the 
wound, that he could not go one step without leaning on m}^ 
shoulder. At length, seeing the enemy coming within shot of 
me, I laid down my fusee and stripped off my coat and waist- 
coat, and running towards them, cried out, ' You sons of cow- 
ards, come on, and I will blow your brains out ! ' On which 
they returned back, and then I walked easy to the place where 
I left my clothes, and put them on, and Bulger and I walked 
leisure^ some distance further. The enem}^ came a second 
time, and I occasioned them to draw back as before, and then 
we walked to Lord Dysart's deer-park wall. I got up the wall 
and helped Bulger up. The enemy, who still pursued us, 
though not within shot, seeing us on the wall, one of them fired 
a random shot at us to no purpose. We got safe over the wall, 
and went from thence into my Lord D3^sart's wood, where 
Bulger said he would remain, thinking it a safe place ; but I 
told him he would be safer anywhere else, for the army of 
Kilkenny and Callen would be soon about the wood, and that 
he would be taken if he stayed there. Besides, as I was very 
averse to betra3'ing him at all, I could not bear the thoughts of 
his being taken in m}^ company- by any party but Lord Carrick*s. 
I then brought him about half a mile beyond the wood, and left 
him there in a brake of briars, and looking towards the wood I 
saw it surrounded by the army. There was a cabin near fhat 
place where I fixed Bulger : he said he would go to it at night, 
and he would send for some of his friends to take care of him. 
It was then almost two o'clock, and we were four hours going 
to that place, which was about two miles from Welsh's house. 
Imagining that there were spies fixed on all the fords and by- 
roads between that place and the mountain, I went towards the 
bounds of the county Tipperary, where I arrived about nightfall, 
and going to a cabin, I asked whether there was any drink sold 
near that place ? The man of the house said there was not ; 
and as I was very much fatigued, I sat down, and there re- 
freshed m3^self with what the cabin afforded. I then begged of 
the man to sell me a pair of his brogues and stockings, as I 
was then barefooted, which he accordingly did. I quitted the 
house, went through Kinsheenah and Poulacoppal, and having 



THE IKlbH SKETCH BOOK. 151 

so many thorns in my feet, I was obliged to go barefooted, and 
went to Sleedelagh, and through the mountains, till I came 
within four miles of Waterford, and going into a cabin, the 
man of the house took eighteen thorns out of the soles of m}^ 
feet, and I remained in and about that place for some time 
after. 

' ' In the meantime a friend of mine was told that it was 
impossible for me to escape death, for Bulger had turned 
against me, and that his friends and Stack were resolved upon 
m}'^ life ; but the person who told my friend so, also said, that 
if my friend would set Bulger and Breen, I might get a pardon 
through the Earl of Carrick's means and Counsellor Robbins's 
'.nterest. My friend said that he was sure I would not consent 
to such a thing, hut the best way was to do it unknown to me ; and 
my friend accordingly set Bulger, who was taken by the Earl 
of Carrick and his party, and Mr. Fitzgerald, and six of Coun- 
sellor Robbins's soldiers, and committed to Kilkenny gaol. He 
was three da3's in gaol before I heard he was taken, being at 
that time twent}^ miles distant from the neighborhood ; nor did 
I hear from him or see him since I left him near Lord Dysart's 
wood, till a friend came and told me it was to preserve my life 
and to fulfil m}^ articles that Bulger was taken." 

"Finding I was suspected, I withdrew to a neighboring 
wood and concealed myself there till night, and then went to 
Ballyduff to Mr. Fitzgerald and surrendered myself to him, till 
I could write to my Lord Carrick ; which I did immediately, 
and gave him an account of what I escaped, or that I would 
have gone to Bally lynch and surrendered myself there to him, 
and begged his lordship to send a guard for me to conduct me 
to his house — which he did, and I remained there for a few 
days. 

' ' He then sent me to Kilkenny gaol ; and at the summer 
assizes following, James Bulger, Patrick Hacket otherwise 
Bristeen, Martin Millea, John Stack, Felix Donelly, Edmund 
Kenny, and James Larrasy were tried, convicted, and exe- 
cuted ; and at spring assizes following, George Roberts was 
tried for recei\dng Colonel Palliser's gold watch knowing it to 
be stolen, but was acquitted on account of exceptions taken to 
my pardon, which prevented my giving evidence. At the 
following assizes, when I had got a new pardon, Roberts was 
again tried for receiving the tankard, ladle, and silver spoons 
from me knowing them to be stolen, and was convicted 
and executed. At the same assizes, John Reddy, my in- 



152 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

structor, and Martin Millea, were also tried, convicted, and 
executed." 

And so they were all hanged : James Bulger, Patrick Racket 
or Bristeen, Martin Millea, John Stack and Felix Donelly, and 
Edmund Kenny and James Larrasy, with Roberts who received 
the Colonel's watch, the tankard, ladle, and the silver spoons, 
were all convicted and executed. Their names drop natu- 
rally into blank verse. It is hard upon poor George Roberts 
too : for the watch he received was no doubt in the very inex- 
pressibles which the Captain himself took from the Colonel's 
head. 

As for the Captain himself, he says that, on going out of 
gaol. Counsellor Robbins and Lord Carrick proposed a sub- 
scription for him — in which, strangely, the gentlemen of the 
county would not join, and so that scheme came to nothing ; 
and so he published his memoirs in order to get himself a little 
mone}' . Manj- a man has taken up the pen under similar cir- 
cumstances of necessity. 

But what became of Captain Freeny afterwards, does not 
appear. Was he an honest man eA^er after? Was he hanged 
for subsequent misdemeanors ? It matters little to him now ; 
though, perhaps, one cannot help feeling a little wish that the 
Jatter fate may have befallen him. 

Whatever liis death was, however, the history of his life has 
been one of the most popular books ever known in this country. 
It formed the class-book in those rustic universities which are 
now rapidly disappearing from among the hedges of Ireland. 
And lest any English reader should, on account of its lowness, 
quarrel with the introduction here of this strange picture of wild 
courage and daring, let him be reconciled by the moral at the 
end, which, in the persons of Bulger and the rest, hangs at the 
beam before Kilkenny gaol. 



THE IKISH SKETCH BOOK. 153 



CHAPTER XVI. 

MORE RAIN IN GALWAY — A WALK THERE — AND THE SECOND 
GALWAY night's ENTERTAINMENT. 

*' Seven hills has Eome, seven mouths has Nihis' stream, 
Around the Pole seven burning planets gleam. 
Twice equal these is Galway, Connaught's Rome : 
Twice seven illustrious tribes here find their home* 
Twice seven fair towers the city's ramparts guard : 
Each house within is built of marble hard. 
With lofty turret flanked, twice seven the gates, 
Through twice seven bridges water permeates. 
In the high church are twice seven altars raised, 
At each a holy saint and patron's praised. 
Twice seven the convents dedicate to heaven, — ^ 
Seven for the female sex —for godly fathers seven, t 

Having read in Hardiman's History the quaint inscription In 
Irish Latin, of which the above lines are a version, and looked 
admiringly at the old plans of Galway which are to be found in 
the same work, I was in hopes to have seen in the town some 
considerable remains of its former splendor, in spite of a warn- 
ing to the contrary which the learned historiographer gives. 

The old city certainly has some relics of its former stateli- 
ness ; and, indeed, is the only town in Ireland I have seen, 
where an antiquary can find much subject for study, or a lover 
of the picturesque an occasion for using his pencU. It is a wild, 

* By the help of an Alexandrine, the names of these famous families 
may also be accommodated to verse. 

" Athey, Blake, Bodkin, Browne, Deane, Dorsey, Frinche, 
Joyce, Morech, Skereth, Fonte, Kirowan, Martin, Lynche." 

t If the rude old verses are not very remarkable in quality, in quantity 
they are still more deficient, and take some dire liberties with the laws laid 
down in the Gradus and the Grammar : 

"Septem ornant monies Romam, septem ostia Nilum, 

Tot rutilis stellis splendet in axe Polus. 
Galvia, Polo Niloque bis aequas. Roma Conachtae, 

Bis septem illustres has colit ilia tribus. 
Bis.urbis septem defendunt moenia turres, 

Intus et en duro est marmore quseque domus. 
Bia septem portae sunt, castra et culmina circum, 

Per totidem pontum permeat unda vias. 
Principe bis septem fulgent altaria templo, 

Quaevis patronae est ara dicata suo, 
Et septem sacrata Deo coenobia, patrum 

Foeminei et sexus, tot pia tecta tenet." 



154 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

fierce, and most original old town. Joyce's Castle in one of the 
principal streets, a huge square gray tower, with many carvings 
and ornaments, is a gallant relic of its old days of prosperity, 
and gives one an awful idea of the tenements which the other 
families inhabited, and which are designed in the interesting 
plate which Mr. Hardiman gives in his worlv. The Collegiate 
Church, too, is still extant, without its fourteen altars, and 
looks to be something between a church and a castle, and as if 
it should be served by Templars with sword and helmet in place 
of mitre and crosier. The old houses in the Main Street are 
like fortresses : the windows look into a court within ; there is 
but a small low door, and a few grim windows peering suspi- 
ciously into the street. 

Then there is Lombard Street, otherwise called Deadman's 
Lane, with a raw- head and cross-bones and a " memento mori" 
over the door where the dreadful tragedy of the Lynches was 
acted in 1493. If Galway is the Rome of Connaught, James 
Lynch Fitzstephen, the Ma3^or, ma}^ be considered as the Lucius 
Junius Brutus thereof. Lynch had a son who went to Spain as 
master of one of his father's ships, and being of an extravagant, 
wild turn, there contracted debts, and drew bills, and alarmed 
his father's correspondent, who sent a clerk and nephew of his 
own back in young Lynch's ship to Galway to settle accounts. 
On the fifteenth day, young Lynch threw the Spaniard over- 
board. Coming back to his own country, he reformed his life 
a little, and was on the point of marrying one of the Blakes, 
Burkes, Bodkins, or others, when a seaman who had sailed with 
him, being on the point of death, confessed the murder in which 
he had been a participator. 

Hereon the father, who was chief magistrate of the town, 
tried his son, and sentenced him to death ; and when the clan 
Lynch rose in a body to rescue the 3^oung man, and avert such 
a disgrace from their family, it is said that Fitzstephen Lj'nch 
hung the culprit with his own hand. A traged}^ called " The 
Warden of Galwa}' " has been written on the subject, and was 
acted a few nights before my arrival. 

The waters of Lough Corrib, which "permeate" under the 
bridges of the town, go rushing and roaring to the sea with a 
noise and eagerness only known in Galway ; and along the 
banks you see all sorts of strange figures washing all sorts of 
wonderful rags, with red petticoats and redder shanks standing 
in the stream. Pigs are in ever}^ street : the whole town shrieks 
with them. There are numbers of idlers on the bridges, thou- 
sands in the streets, humming and swarming in and out of dark 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 155 

old ruinous houses ; congregated round numberless apple-stalls, 
nail-stalls, bottle- stalls, pigsfoot-stalls ; in queer old shops, that 
look to be two centuries old ; loitering about warehouses, ruined 
or not ; looking at the washerwomen washing in the river, or at 
the fish-donke3's, or at the potato-stalls, or at a vessel coming 
into the qua}^, or at the boats putting out to sea. 

That boat at the qua}', b}- the little old gate, is bound for 
Arranmore ; and one next to it has a freight of passengers 
for the cliffs of Mohir on the Clare coast ; and as the sketch is 
taken, a hundred of people have stopped in the street to look 
on, and are buzzing behind in Irish, telling the little bo3's in 
that language — who will persist in placing themselves exactly 
in the front of the designer — to get out of his way : which they 
do for some time ; but at length curiosity is so intense that 3'ou 
are entireh' hemmed in and the view rendered quite invisible. 
A sailor's wife comes up — who - speaks English — with a very 
wistful face, and begins to hint that them black pictures are 
ver^'l^ad hkenesses, and ver^vdear too for a poor woman, and 
how much would a painted one cost does his honor think? 
And she has her husband that is going to sea to the West 
Indies to-morrow, and she'd give anything to have a picture of 
him. So I made bold to offer to take his likeness for nothing. 
But he never came, except one da}- at dinner, and not at all on 
the next da}^ though I stayed on purpose to accommodate him. 
It is true that it was pouring with rain ; and as English water- 
proof cloaks are not waterproof in Ireland^ the traveller who has 
but one coat must of necessit}' respect it, and had better stay 
where he is, unless he prefers to go to bed while he has his 
clothes dried at the next stage. 

The houses in the fashionable street where the club-house 
stands (a strong building, with an agreeable Old Bailey look) , 
have the appearance of so many little Newgates. The Cath- 
olic chapels are numerous, unfinished, and ugly. Great ware- 
houses and mills rise up by the stream, or in the midst of 
unfinished streets here and there ; and handsome convents 
with their gardens, justice-houses, barracks, and _ hospitals 
adorn the large, poor, bustling, rough-and-readj'-looking town. 
A man who sells hunting-whips, gunpowder, guns, fishing- 
tackle, and brass and iron ware, has a few books on his counter ; 
and a lady in a by-street, who carries on the profession of a 
miUiner, ekes out her stock in a similar way. But there were 
no regular book-shops that I saw, and when it came on to rain 
I had no resource but the hedge-school volumes again. They, 
like Patrick Spelraan's sign (which was faithfully copied in the 



156 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

town) , present some very rude flowers of poetry and ' ' enter- 
tainment " of an exceedingly humble sort ; but such shelter is 
not to be despised when no better is to be had ; nay, possibly 
its novelty ma}' be piquant to some readers, as an admirer of 
Shakspeare will occasionally condescend to listen to Mr. Punch, 
or an epicure to content himself with a homely dish of beans 
and bacon. 

When Mr. Kilroy's waiter has drawn the window curtains, 
brought the hot- water for the whiskej^-negus, a pipe and a 
" screw" of tobacco, and two huge old candlesticks that were 
plated once, the audience ma}^ be said to be assembled, and 
after a little overture performed on the pipe, the second night's 
entertainment begins with the historical tragedy of the ' ' Battle 
of Aughrim." 

Though it has found its way to the West of Ireland, the 
' ' Battle of Aughrim " is evidently by a Protestant author, a 
great enem}^ of popery and wooden shoes : both of which prin- 
ciples incarnate in the person of Saint Ruth, the French Gen- 
eral commanding the troops sent by Louis XIV. to the aid of 
James II., meet with a woful downfall at the conclusion of the 
piece. It must have been written in the reign of Queen Anne, 
judging from some loyal compliments which are paid to that 
sovereign in the play ; which is also modelled upon " Cato." 

The " Battle of Aughrim " is written from beginning to end 
in decasjdlabic verse of the richest sort ; and introduces us to 
the chiefs of William's and James's armies. On the English 
side we have Baron Ginkell, three Generals, and two Colonels ; 
on the Irish, Monsieur Saint Ruth, two Generals, two Colonels, 
and an English gentleman of fortune, a volunteer, and son of 
no less a person than Sir Edmundbury Godfre}^ 

There are two ladies — Jemima, the Irish Colonel Talbot's 
daughter, in love with Godfrey ; and Lucinda, lady of Colonel 
Herbert, in love with her lord. And the deep nature of the 
tragedy may be imagined when it is stated that Colonel Tal- 
bot is killed. Colonel Herbert is killed, Sir Charles Godfre}' is 
killed, and Jemima commits suicide, as resolved not to survive 
her adorer. St. Ruth is also killed, and the remaining Irish 
heroes are taken prisoners or run away. Among the super- 
numeraries there is likewise a dreadful slaughter. 

The author, however, though a Protestant is an Irishman 
(there are peculiarities in his pronunciation which belong only 
to that nation), and as far as courage goes, he allows the two 
parties to be pretty equal. The scene opens with a martial 
sound of kettle-drums and trumpets in the Irish camp, near 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 157 

Atlilone. That town is besieged by Ginkell, and Monsieur 
►St. Ruth (despising his eneni}- with a confidence often fatal to 
Generals) meditates an attack on the besiegers' hues, if, by au}^ 
chance, the besieged garrison be not in a condition to drive 
them off. After discoursing on the posture of affairs, and let- 
ting General Sarsfield and Colonel O'Neil know his hearty 
contempt of the English and their General, all parties, after 
protestations of patriotism, indulge in hopes of the downfall of 
William. ,St. liuth says he will drive the wolves and lions' 
cubs away. O'Neil declares he scorns the revolution, and, like 
great Cato, smiles at persecution. Sarsfield longs for the da}^ 
" when our Monks and Jesuits shall return, and holy incense 
on our altars burn." When 

''Enter a. Fost. 

" Post. With important news I from Athlone am sent, 
Be pleased to lead me to the General's tent. 

"Sars. Behold the General there. Your message tell. 

" St. Ruth. Declare your message. Are our friends all well 1 

" Post. Pardon me, sir, the fatal news I bring 
Like vulture's poison every heart shall sting. 
Athlone is lost without your timely aid. 
At six this morning an assault was made, 
When, under shelter of the British cannon. 
Their grenadiers in armor took the Shannon, 
Led by brave Captain Sandys, who with fame 
Plunged to his middle in the rapid stream. 
He led them through, and with undaunted ire 
He gained the bank in spite of all our fire ; 
Being bravely followed by his grenadiers 
Though bullets flew like hail about their ears, 
And by this time they enter uncontrolled. 

" St. Ruth. Dare all the force of England be so bold 
T' attempt to storm so brave a town, when I 
With all Hibernia's sons of war am nigh ? 
Return : and if the Britons dare pursue, 
Tell them St. Ruth is near, and that will do. 

" Post. Your aid would do much better than your name. 

" St. Ruth. Bear back this answer, friend, from whence you came. 

[Exit Post." 

The picture of brave Sandys, " who with fame plunged to 
his middle in the rapid strame," is not a bad image on the part 
of the Post; and St. Ruth's reply, '^Tell them St. Ruth is 
near, and that will do,'' characteristic of the vanity of his nation. 
But Sarsfield knows Britons better, and pays a merited com- 
pliment to their valor : 

" Sars. . Send speedy succors and their fate prevent, 
You know not yet what Britons dare attempt. 



158 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

I know the English fortitude is such, 

To boast of nothing, though they hazard much. 

No force on earth their fury can repel, 

Nor would they fly from all the devils in hell. 

Another officer arrives : Athlone is reall}^ taken, St. Ruth gives 
orders to retreat to Aiighriin, and Sarsfield, in a rage, first chal- 
lenges him, and then vows he will quit the army. " A gleam of 
horror does my vitals damp^"' says the Frenchman (in a figure 
of speech more remarkable for vigor than logic) : " I fear Lord 
Lucan has forsook the camp ! " But not so : after a momen- 
tar}' indignation, Sarsfield returns to his duty, and ere long is 
reconciled with his vain and vacillating chief. 

And now the love-intrigue begins. Godfrey enters, and 
states Sir Charles Godfrey is his lawful name: he is an Eng- 
lishman, and was on his way to join Ginckle's camp, when Jemi- 
ma's beauty overcame him : he asks Colonel Talbot to bestow 
on him the lady's hand. The Colonel consents, and in Act II., 
on the plain of Aughrim, at 5 o'clock in the morning, Jemima 
enters and proclaims her love. The lovers have an interview, 
which concludes by a mutual confession of attachment, and 
Jemima says, '' Here, take my hand. 'Tis true the gift is 
small, but when I can I'll give j-ou heart and all." The lines 
show finely the agitation of the young person. She meant to 
say, Take my hearty but she is longing to be married to him, 
and the words slip out as it were unawares. Godfrey cries in 
raptures — 

** Thanks to the gods ! who such a present gave : 
Such radiant graces ne'er could man receive (resave) ; 
For who on earth has e'er such transports known 1 
What is the Turkish monarch on his throne, 
Hemmed round ivith rusty sioords in pompous state ? 
Amidst his court no joys can be so great. 
Retire with me, my soul, no longer stay 
In public view ! the General moves this way." 

'Tis, indeed, the General ; who, reconciled with Sarsfield, 
straightway, according to his custom, begins to boast about 
what he will do : 

" Thrice welcome to my heart, thou best of friends ! * 
The rock on which our holy faith depends ! 
May this our meeting as a tempest make 
The vast foundations of Britannia shake, 
Tear up their orange plant, and overwhelm 
The strongest bulwarks of the British realm ! 
Then shall the Dutch and Hanoverian fall. 
And James shall ride in triumph to Whitehall ; 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 159 

Then to protect our faith he will maintain 
An inquisition here like that in Spain. 

" Sars. Most bravely urged, my lord ! your skill, I OTrn, 
Would be unparalleled — had you saved Athlone." 

— "Had you saved Athlone!" Sarsfield has him there. 
And the contest of words might have provoked quarrels still 
more fatal, but alarms are heard : the battle begins, and St. 
Ruth (still confident) goes to meet the enemy, exclaiming, 
" Athlone was sweet, but Aughrim shall be sour." The fury 
of the Irish is redoubled on hearing of Talbot's heroic death : 
the Colonel's corpse is presently brought in, and to it enters 
Jemima, who bewails her loss in the following pathetic terms : — 

" Jemima. Oh ! — he is dead ! — my soul is all on fire, 
Witness ye gods ! — he did with fame expire. 
For Liberty a sacrifice was made, 
And fell, like Pompey, by some villain's blade. 
There lies a breathless corse, whose soul ne'er knew 
A thought but what was always just and true ; 
Look down from heaven, God of peace and love, 
Waft him with triumph to the throne above ; 
And, ye winged guardians of tlie skies ! 
Tune your sweet harps and sing his obsequies ! 
Good friends, stand off — whilst I embrace the ground 
Whereon he lies — and bathe each mortal wound 
With brinish tears, that like to torrents run 
From these sad eyes. heavens ! I'm undone. 

\ Falls down on the body 
" ^n^er Sir Charles Godfrey. He raises her. 

" Sir Char. Why do these precious eyes like fountains flow, 
To drown the radiant heaven that lies beloiv ? 
Dry up your tears, I trust his soul ere this 
Has reached the mansions of eternal bliss. 
Soldiers ! bear hence the body out of sight. 

[They bear him off. 

" Jem. Oh, stay — ye murderers, cease to kill me quite : 
See how he glares ! — and see again he files ! 
The crowds fly open, and he mounts the skies. 
Oh ! see his blood, it shines refulgent bright, ) 
I see him yet — I cannot lose him quite, > 

But still pursue him on — and — lose my sirjht." ) 

The gradual disappearance of the Colonel's soul is now finel}^ 
indicated, and so is her grief: when showing the body to Sir 
Charles, she sa^'s, "Behold the mangled cause of all my 
woes." The sorrow of youth, however, is but transitor}- ; and 
when her lover bids her dry her gnshish tears, she takes out her 
pocket-handkerchief with the elasticity of youth, and consoles 
herself for the father in the husband. 



_.J'^ THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK, 

Act III. represents the English camp : Ginckle and his 
Generals discourse ; the armies are engaged. In Act IV. the 
English are worsted in spite of their valor, which Sarsfield 
greatly describes. " View," says he — 

" View how the foe like an impetuous flood 
Breaks through the smoke, the water, and — the mud ! ' 

It becomes exceedingly hot. Colonel Earles says — 

" In vain Jove's lightnings issue from the sky, 
For death more sure from British ensigns fly. 
Their messengers of death much blood have spilled. 
And full three hundred of the Irish killed." 

A description of war (Herbert) : — 

" Now bloody colors wave in all their pride, 
Aiid each proud hero does his beast bestride." 

General Dorrington's description of the fight is, if possible, 
still more noble : 

" Dor. Haste, noble friends, and save your lives by flight. 
For 'tis but madness if you stand to fight. 
Our cavalry the battle have forsook, 
And death appears in each dejected look ; 
Ndthing but dread confusion can be seen, 
For severed heads and trunks o'erspread the green; 
The fields, the vales, the hills, and vanquished plain, 
For five miles round are covered with the slain. 
Death in each quarter does the eye alarm. 
Here lies a leg, and there a shattered arm. 
There heads appear, which, cloven by mighty bangs, 
And severed quite, on either shoulder hangs : 
This is the awful scene, my lords ! Oh, fly 
The impending danger, for your fate is nigh." 

Which party, however, is to win — the Irish or English? 
Their heroism is equal, and young Godfrey especially, on the 
Irish side, is carrying all before him — when he is interrupted 
in the slaughter by the ghost of his father : of old Sir Edmund- 
bur3^ whose monument we may see in Westminster Abbey. 
Sir Charles, at first, doubts about the genuineness of this ven- 
erable old apparition : and thus puts a case to the ghost : — 

" Were ghosts in heaven, in heaven they there would stay. 
Or if in hell, they could not get away." 

A clincher, certainly, as one would imagine ; but the ghost 
jumps over the horns of the fancied dilemma, by saying that 
he is not at liberty to state where he comes from. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 161 

" Ghost. Where visions rest, or souls imprisoned dwell. 
By heaven's command, we are forbid to tell ; 
But in the obscure grave — where corpse decay, 
Moulder in dust and putrefy away, — 
No rest is there ; for the immortal soul 
Takes its full flight and flutters round the Pole ; 
Sometimes I hover over the Euxine sea — 
From Pole to Sphere, until the judgment day — 
Over the Thracian Bosphorus do I float, 
And pass the Stygian lake in Charon's boat. 
O'er Vulcan's fiery court and sulph'rous care, 
And ride like Neptune on a briny wave ; 
List to the blowing noise of Etna's flames. 
And court the shades of Amazonian dames ; 
Then take my flight up to the gleamy moon ; 
Thus do I wander till the day of doom. 
Proceed I dare not, or I would unfold 
A horrid tale would make your blood run cold, 
Chill all your nerves and sinews in a trice 
Like whispering rivulets congealed to ice. 

" Sir Char. Ere you depart me, ghost, I here demand 
You'd let me know your last divine command ! " 

The ghost says that the young man must die in the battle ; that 
it will go ill for him if he die in the wrong cause ; and, there- 
fore, that he had best go over to the Protestants — which poor 
Sir Charles (not without many sighs for Jemima) consents to 
do. He goes off then, saying — 

" ril join my countrymen, and yet proclaim 
Nassau's great title to the crimson plain." 

In Act v., that desertion turns the fate of the daj^ Sars- 
field enters with his sword drawn, and acknowledges his fate. 
" Aughrim," exclaims Lord Lucan, 

" Aughrim is now no more, St. Ruth is dead, 
And all his guards are from the battle fled. 
As he rode down the hill he met his fall, 
And died a victim to a cannon hall." 

And he bids the Frenchman's body to 



lie like Pompey in his gore, 



Whose hero's blood encircles the Egyptian shore." 

" Four hundred Irish prisoners we have got," exclaims an 
English General, " and seven thousand lyeth on the spot." In 
fact, they are entirety discomfited, and retreat off the stage 
altogether ; while, in the moment of victory, poor Sir Charles 
Godfrey enters, wounded to death, according to the old gentle- 
man's prophecv. He is racked by bitter remorse : he tells his 

11 



V62 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

love of his treacheiy, and declares " no crocodile was evermore 
unjust." His agon}^ increases, the " optic nerves grow eKm and 
lose their sight, and all his veins are now exhausted quite ; " 
and he dies in the arms of his Jemima, who stabs herself in the 
usual way. 

And so every one being disposed of, the drums and trumpets 
give a great peal, the audience huzzas, and the curtain falls on 
Grinckle and his friends exclaiming — 

" May all the gods th' auspicious evening bless. 
Who crowns Great Britain's arrums with success ! " 

And questioning the prosody, what Englishman will not join in 
the sentiment? 

In the interlude the band (the pipe) performs a favorite air. 
Jack the waiter and candle- snuffer looks to see that all is ready ; 
and after the dire business of the traged}^ comes in to sprinkle 
the stage with water (and perhaps a little whiskey in it). Thus 
all things being arranged, the audience takes its seat again and 
the afterpiece begins. 

Two of the little yellow volumes purchased at Ennis are 
entitled " The Irish and Hibernian Tales." The former are 
modern, and the latter of an ancient sort ; and so great is the 
superiority of the old stories over the new, in fancj^, dra^matic 
interest, and humor, that one can't help fancying Hibernia must 
have been a very superior countr}'' to Ireland. 

These Hibernian novels, too, are evidently intended for the 
hedge-school universities. The}^ have the old tricks and some 
of the old plots that one has read in many popular legends of 
almost all countries, European and Eastern : successful cun- 
ning is the great virtue applauded ; and the heroes pass through 
a thousand wild extravagant dangers, such as could only have 
been invented when art was 3^oung and faith was large. And 
as the honest old author of the tales sa^^s ' ' the}- are suited to 
the meanest as well as the highest capacity, tending both to 
improve the fancy and enrich the mind," let us conclude the 
night's entertainment by reading one or two of them, and 
reposing after the doleful tragedy which has been represented. 
The " Black Thief" is worthy of the Arabian Nights, I think, 
— as wild and odd as an Eastern tale. 

It begins, as usual, with a King and Queen who lived once 
on a time in the South of Ireland, and had three sons ; but the 
Queen being on her death-bed, and fancying her husband might 
marry again, and unwilling that her children should be under 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 163 

the jurisdiction of any other woman, besought his Majesty to 
place them in a tower at her death, and keep them there safe 
until the young Princes should come of age. 

The Queen dies : the King of course marries again, and the 
new Queen, who bears a son too, hates the offspring of the for- 
mer marriage, and looks about for means to destroy them. 

" At length the Queen, having got some business with the hen- 
wife, went herself to her, and after a long conference passed, 
was taking leave of her, when the hen-wife prayed that if 
ever she should come back to her again she might break her 
neck. The Queen, greatly incensed at such a daring insult 
from one of her meanest subjects, to make such a prayer on 
her, demanded immediately the reason, or she would have hei 
put to death. ' It was worth your while, madam,' says the 
hen-wife, ' to pav me well for it, for the reason I prayed so on 
you concerns you much.' ' What must I pay you? ' asked the 
Queen. ' You must give me,' says she, ' the full of a pack of 
wool ; and I have an ancient crock which you must fill with 
butter ; likewise a barrel which 3^ou must fill for me full of 
wheat.' ' How much wool will it take to the pack? ' says the 
Queen. ' It will take seven herds of sheep,' said she, ' and 
their increase for seven years.' ' How much butter will it take 
to fill your crock ? ' ' Seven dairies,' said she, ' and the increase 
for seven years.' ' And how much will it take to fill the barrel 
you have ? ' says the Queen. ' It will take the increase of seven 
barrels of wheat for seven years.' 'That is a great quantity,' 
says the Queen, ' but the reason must be extraordinary, and 
before I want it I will give you all 3^ou demand.' " 

The hen-wife acquaints the Queen with the existence of the 
three sons, and giving her Majesty an enchanted pack of cards, 
bids her to get the young men to play with her with these 
cards, and on their losing, to inflict upon them such a task as 
must infallibly end in their ruin. All young princes are set 
upon such tasks, and it is a sort of opening of the pantomnne, 
before the tricks and activity begin. The Queen went home, 
and "got speaking" to the King " in regard of his children, 
and she broke it off to him in a very polite and engaging manner, 
so that he could see no muster or design in it." The King 
agreed to bring his sons to court, and at night, when the royal 
party "began to sport, and play at all kinds of diversions," 
the Queen cunningly challenged the three Princes to play cards. 
They lose, and she sends them in consequence to bring her back 
the knight of the Glen's wild steed of bells. 

On their road (as wandering young princes, Indian or Irish, 



164 THE IKISH SKETCH BOOK. 

alwaj^s do) they meet with the Black Thief of Sloan, who tells 
them what the}" must do. But the}" are caught in the attempt, 
and brought ' ' into that dismal part of the palace where the 
Knight kept a furnace always boiling, in which he threw all 
offenders that ever came in his way, which in a few minutes 
would entirely consume them. ' Audacious villains ! ' says the 
Knight of the Glen, ' how dare you attempt so bold an action as 
to steal my steed ? see now the reward of your folly ; for your 
greater punishment, I will not boil you all together, but one 
after the other, so that he that survives may witness the dire 
afflictions of his unfortunate companions.' So saying, he 
ordered his servants to stir up the fire. ' We will boil the 
eldest-looking of these young men first,' says he, ' and so on 
to the last, which will be this old champion with the black cap. 
He seems to be the captain, and looks as if he had come 
through many toils.' — * I was as near death once as this Prince 
is yet,' says the Black Thief, ' and escaped : and so will he 
too.' ' No, you never were,' said the Knight, ' for he is within 
tw9 or three minutes of his latter end.' ' But,' says the Black 
Thief, ' I was within one moment of my death, and I am here 
yet.' ' How was that? ' says the Knight. ' I would be glad to 
hear it, for it seems to be impossible.' ' If you think. Sir 
Knight,' says the Black Thief, ' that the danger I was in sur- 
passed that of this young man, will you pardon him his crime? ' 
' I will,' says the Knight, ' so go on with your story.' 

" ' I was, sir,' says he, ' a very wild boy in my youth, and 
came through many distresses : once in particular, as I was on 
my rambling, I was benighted, and could find no lodging. At 
length I came to an old kiln, and being much fatigued, I went 
up and lay on the ribs. I had not been long there, when I saw 
three witches coming in with three bags of gold. Each put her 
bag of gold under her head as if to sleep. I heard the one say 
to the other that if the Black Thief came on them while they 
slept he would not leave the-m a penny. I found by their dis- 
course that everybody had got my name into their mouth, 
though I kept silent as death during their discourse. At 
length they fell fast asleep, and then I stole softly down, and 
seeing some turf convenient^ I placed one under each of their 
heads, and off I went with their gold as fast as I could. 

" ' I had not gone far,' continued the Thief of Sloan, ' until I 
saw a greyhound, a hare, and a hawk in pursuit of me, and began 
to think it must be the witches that had taken that metamor- 
phosis, in order that I might not escape them unseen either by 
land or water. Seeing they did not appear in any formidable 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 165 

shape, I was more than once resolved to attack them, thinking 
that with my broad sword I could easily destroy them. But 
considering again that it was perhaps still in their power to be- 
come so, I gave over the attempt, and climbed with difficulty 
up a tree, bringing my sword in my hand, and all the gold 
along with me. However, when they came to the tree they 
found what I had done, and, making further use of their hellish 
art, one of them was changed into a smith's anvil, and another 
into a piece of iron, of which the third one soon made a hatchet. 
Having the hatchet made, she fell to cutting down the tree, and 
in course of an hour it began to shake with me.' " 

This is very good and original. The "boiling" is in the 
first fee-faw-fam style, and the old allusion to " the old cham- 
pion in the black cap " has the real Ogresque humor. Nor is 
that simple contrivance of the honest witches without its charm : 
for if, instead of wasting their time, the one in turning herself 
into an anvil, the other into a piece of iron, and so hammering 
out a hatchet at considerable labor and expense — if either of 
them had turned herself into a hatchet at once, they might have 
chopped down the Black Thief before cock-crow, when they 
were obliged to fly off and leave him in possession of the bags 
of gold. 

The eldest Prince is ransomed by the Knight of the Glen in 
consequence of this stor}^ ; and the second Prince escapes on 
account of the merit of a second story ; but the great story of 
all is of course reserved for the youngest Prince. 

" I was one daj^ on my travels," sa3's the Black Thief, " and 
I came into a large forest, where I wandered a long time and 
could not get out of it. At length I came to a large castle, 
and fatigue obliged me to call into the same, where I found a 
young woman, and a child sitting on her knee, and she crjdng. 
I asked her what made her cr}^, and where the lord of the castle 
was, for I wondered greatly that I saw no stir of servants or anj' 
person about the place. ' It is well for 3'ou,' sa3-s the young 
woman, ' that the lord of this castle is not at home at present ; 
for he is a monstrous giant, with but one e3^e on his forehead, 
who lives on human flesh. He brought me this child,' sa3's she 
— ' I do not know where he got it — and ordered me to make 
it into a pie, and I cannot help cr3ing at the command.' I told 
her that if she knew of an3^ place convenient that I could leave 
the child safel3% I would do it, rather than that it should be 
buried in the bowels of such a monster. She told of a house 
a distance off, where I would get a woman who would take 
care of it. ' But what will I do in regard of the pie ? ' ' Cut a 



166 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

finger off it,' said I, ' and I will bring you in a young wild pig 
out of the forest, which j^ou ma}^ dress as if it was the child, 
and put the linger in a certain place, that if the giant doubts 
an3^thing about it, you may know where to turn it over at first, 
and when he sees it he will be full}^ satisfied that it is made of 
the child.' She agreed to the plan I proposed ; and, cutting off 
the child's finger, by her direction I soon had it at the house 
she told me of and brought her the little pig in the place of it. 
She then made readj' the pie ; and, after eating and drinking 
heartil}' m3'self, I was just taking my leave of the 3'oung woman 
when we observed the giant coming through the castle-gates. 
' Lord bless me ! ' said she, ' what will 3'ou do now? run awa3^ 
and lie down among the dead bodies that he has in the room ' 
(showing me the place) , ' and strip oflT your clothes that he ma3^ 
not know 3^ou from the rest if he has occasion to go that way.' 
I took her advice, and laid myself down among the rest, as if 
dead, to see how he would behave. The first thing I heard 
was him calling for his pie. When she set it down before him, 
he swore it smelt like swine's flesh ; but, knowing where to find 
the finger, she immediatel3^ turned it up — which fairly con- 
vinced him of the contrar3\ The pie onty served to sharpen 
his appetite, and I heard him sharpen his knife, and sa3'ing he 
must have a collop or two, for he was not near satisfied. But 
what was m3^ terror when I heard the giant groping among the 
bodies, and, fanc3ing m3^self, cut the half of my hip off, and 
took it with him to be roasted. You ma3^ be certain I was in 
great pain ; but the fear of being killed prevented me from 
making any complaint. However, when he had eat all, he be- 
gan to drink hot liquors in great abundance, so that in a short 
time he could not hold up his head, but threw himself on a 
large creel he had made for the purpose, and fell fast asleep. 
When ever I heard him snoring, bad as I was, I went up and 
caused the woman to bind m3" wound with a handkerchief; and 
taking the giant's spit, I reddened it in the fire, and ran it 
through the e3^e, but was not able to kill him. However, I left 
the spit sticking in his head and took to my heels ; but I soon 
found he was in pursuit of me, although blind ; and, having an 
enchanted ring, he threw it at me, and it fell on ray big toe 
and remained fastened to it. The giant then called to the ring, 
' Where it was ? ' and to my great surprise it made him answer, 
' On my foot,' and he, guided by the same, made a leap at me 
— which I had the good luck to observe, and fortunatel3^ escaped 
the danger. However, I found running was of no use in saving 
me as long as I had the ring on my foot ; so I took my sword 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 167 

and cut off the toe it was fastened on, and threw both into a 
large fish-pond that was convenient. The giant called again to 
the ring, which, by the power of enchantment, alwaj's made 
answer ; but he, not knowing what I had done, imagined it wat 
still on some part of me, and made a violent leap to seize me — 
when he went into the pond over head and ears and was drowned. 
Now, Sir Knight," said the Thief of Sloan, "you see what 
dangers I came through and always escaped ; but indeed I am 
lame for want of my toe ever since." 

And now remains but one question to be answered, viz. How 
is the Black Thief himself to come off? This difficulty is solved 
in a very dramatic way and with a sudden turn in the narrative 
that is very wild and curious. 

" My lord and master," says an old woman that was hsten- 
ing all the time, " that story is but too true, as I well know : 
for I am the very woman that was in the gianfs castle^ and you^ 
my lord, the child that I was to make into a pie ; and this is the 
very man that saved your life, which you may know by the 
want of your finger that was taken off, as you have heard, to 
deceive the giant." 

That fantastical way of bearing testimony to the previous 
tale, by producing an old woman who says the tale is not only 
true, but she was the very old woman who lived in the giant's 
castle, is almost a stroke of genius. It is fine to think that 
the simple chronicler found it necessary to have a proof for his 
story, and he was no doubt perfectly contented with the proof 

found. . ^ 1 . 

"The Knight of the Glen, greatly surprised at what he 
had heard the old woman tell, and knowing he wanted his 
fino-er from his childhood, began to understand that the story 
was true enough. ' And is this my dear deliverer?' says he. 
' O brave fellow, I not only pardon you all, but I will keep you 
with myself while you live ; where you shall feast like princes 
and have every attendance that I have myself.' They all re- 
turned thanks on their knees, and the Black Thief told him the 
reason they attempted to steal the steed of bells, and the neces- 
sity they were under of going home. ' Well,' says the Knight 
of the Glen, ' if that's the case, I bestow you my steed rather 
than this brave fellow should die : so you may go when you 
please : onlv remember to call and see me betimes, that we may 
know each "other well.' They promised they would, and with 
great joy they set off for the King their father's palace, and the 
Black Thief along with them. The wicked Queen was standing 
all this time on the tower, and hearing the bells ringing at a 



168 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

great distance off, knew very well it was the Princes coining 
home, and the steed with them, and through spite and vex- 
ation precipitated herself from the tower and was shattered to 
pieces. The three Princes lived happ}^ and well during their 
father's reign, alwa3'S keeping the Black Thief along with them ; 
but how the}' did after the old King's death is not known." 

Then we come upon a story that exists in many a European 
language — of the man cheating Death; then to the history of 
the Apprentice Thief, who of course cheated his masters : which, 
too, is an old tale, and may have been told very hkely among 
those Phoenicians who were the fathers of the Hibernians, for 
whom these tales were devised. A very curious tale is there 
concerning Manus O'Malaghan and the Fairies : — "In the 
parish of Ahoghill lived Manus O'Malaghan. As he loas search- 
ing for a calf that had strayed^ he heard many people talking. 
Drawing near, he distinctl}^ heard them repeating, one after the 
other, ' Get me a horse, get me a horse ; ' and ' Get me a horse 
too,' sa3^s Manus. Manus was instantlj^ mounted on a steed, 
surrounded with a vast crowd, who galloped off, taking poor 
Manus with them. In a short time they suddenly stopped in 
a large wide street, asking Manus if he knew where he was? 
' Faith,' says he, ' I do not.' ' You are in Spam,' said they." 

Here we have again the wild mixture of the positive and 
the fanciful. The chronicler is careful to tell us wh}- Manus 
went out searching for a calf, and this positiveness prodigiously 
increases the reader's wonder at the subsequent events. And 
the question and answer of the mysterious horseman is fine : 
" Don't you know where you are? In Spain." A vague solu- 
tion, such as one has of occurrences in dreams sometimes. 

The history of Robin the Blacksmith is full of these strange 
flights of poetr}^ He is followed about " b}" a little boy in a 
green jacket," who performs the most wondrous feats of the 
blacksmith's art, as follows : — 

"Robin was asked to do something, who wisely shifted it, 
sajing he would be very sorr}^ not to give the honor of the first 
trick to his lordship's smith — at which the latter was called 
forth to the bellows. When the fire was well kindled, to the 
great surprise of all present, he blew a great shower of wheat 
out of the fire, which fell through all the shop. They then de- 
manded of Robin to try what he could do. ' Pho ! ' said Robin, 
as if he thought nothing of what was done. ' Come,' said he 
to the boy, ' I think I showed you something like that.' The 
bo}^ goes then to the bellows and blew out a great flock of 
pigeons, who soon devoured all the grain and then disappeared. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 169 

" The Dublin smith, sorelj^ vexed that such a boy should 
outdo him, goes a second time to the bellows and blew a fine 
trout out of the hearth, who jumped into a little river that was 
running bj' the shop-door and was seen no more at that time. 

" Robin then said to the boy, ' Come, 3^ou must bring us 
yon trout back again, to let the gentlemen see we can do some- 
thing.' Awa}^ the bo}" goes and blew a large otter out of the 
hearth, who immediately leaped into the river and in a short 
time returned with the trout in his mouth, and then disappeared. 
All present allowed that it was a folly to attempt a competition 
any further." 

The bo}^ in the green jacket was one " of a kind of small 
beings called fairies ; " and not a little does it add to the charm 
of these wild tales to feel, as one reads them, that the writer 
must have believed in his heart a great deal of what he told. 
You see the tremor as it were, and a wild look of the eyes, as 
the story-teller sits in his nook and recites, and peers wistfully 
round lest the beings he talks of be really at hand. 

Let us give a couple of the little tales entire. They are not 
so fanciful as those before mentioned, but of the comic sort, 
and suited to the first kind of capacity mentioned by the author 
in his preface. 

DONALD AND HIS NEIGHBORS. 

" HuDDEN and Dudden and Donald O'Neary were near neigh- 
bors in the barony of Ballinconlig, and ploughed with three bul- 
locks ; but the two former, envying the present prosperitj^ of 
the latter, determined to kill his bullock to prevent his farm 
being properly cultivated and labored — that, going back in 
the world, he might be induced to sell his lands, which the}^ 
meant to get possession of. Poor Donald, finding his bullock 
killed, immediatel}^ skinned it, and throwing the skin over his 
shoulder, with the fleshy side out, set off to the next town with 
it, to dispose of it to the best advantage. Going along the 
road a magpie flew on the top of the hide, and began picking 
it, chattering all the time. This bird had been taught to speak 
and imitate the human voice, and Donald, thinking he under- 
stood some words it was sajang, put round his hand and caught 
hold of it. Having got possession of it, he put it under his 
great-coat, and so went on to the town. Having sold the hide, 
he went into an inn to take a dram ; and, following the land- 
lady into the cellar, he gave the bird a squeeze, which caused 
it to chatter some broken accents that surprised her very much. 



170 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

' What is that I hear? ' said she to Donald : ' I think it is talk, 
and yet I do not understand.' ' Indeed,' said Donald, ' it is a 
bird I have that tells me everything, and I alwa3's carr}' it with 
me to know. when there is any danger. Faith,' says he, 'it 
sa3's 3'ou have far better liquor than 3'Ou are giving me.' ' That 
is strange,' said she, going to another cask of better qualit3% 
and asking him if he would sell the bird. ' I will,' said Donald, 
' if I get enough for it.' ' I will fill your hat with silver if you 
will leave it with me.' . Donald was glad to hear the news, 
and, taking the silver, set off, rejoicing at his good luck. He 
had not been long home when he met with Hudden and Dud- 
den. ' Ha ! ' said he, ' 3^ou thought 3^ou did me a bad turn, 
but 3'ou could not have done me a better : for look here what 
I have got for the hide,' showing them the hatful of silver. 
' You never saw such a demand for hides in 3^our life as there 
is at present.' Hudden and Dudden that very night killed their 
bullocks, and set out the next morning to sell their hides. On 
coming to the place the3^ went to all the merchants, but could 
onl3^ get a trifle for them. At last the3^ had to take what they 
could get, 'and came home in a great rage and vowing revenge 
on poor Donald. He had a prett3' good guess how matters 
would turn out, and his bed being under the kitchen-window, 
he was afraid the3' would rob him, or perhaps kill him when 
asleep ; and on that account, when he was going to bed, he left 
his old mother in his bed, and la3' down in her place, which 
was in the other side of the house, and the3^ taking the old 
woman for Donald, choked her in the bed ; but he making some 
noise, they had to retreat and leave the mone3^ behind them, 
which grieved them ver3' much. However, b3^ da3'break, Don- 
ald got his mother on his back, and carried her to town. Stop- 
ping at a well, he fixed his mother with her staff as if she was 
stooping for a drink, and then went into a public-house con- 
venient and called for a dram. ' T wish,' said he to a woman 
that stood near him, ' 3^ou would tell m3^ mother to come in. 
She is at yon well trying to get a drink, and she is hard in 
hearing: if she does not observe 3^ou, give her a little shake, 
and tell her that I want her.' The woman called her several 
times, but she seemed to take no notice : at length she went 
to her and shook her b3^ the arm ; but when she let her go 
again, she tumbled on her head into the well, and, as the 
woman thought, was drowned. She, in great fear and surprise 
at the accident, told Donald what had happened. ' O merc3^' 
said he, ' what is this? ' He ran and pulled her out of the well, 
weeping and lamenting all the time, and acting in such a man- 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 171 

ner that 3^011 would imagine that he had lost his senses. The 
woman, on the other hand, was far worse than Donald : for his 
grief was onl}' feigned, but she imagined herself to be the cause 
of the old woman's death. The inhabitants of the town, hear- 
ing what had happened, agreed to make Donald up a good sum 
of money for his loss, as the accident happened in their place ; 
and Donald brought a greater sum home with him than he got 
for the magpie. They buried Donald's mother ; and as soon 
as he saw Hudden and Dudden, he showed them the last purse 
of money he had got. ' You thought to kill me last night,' 
said he ; ' but it was good for me it happened on my mother, 
for I got all that purse for her to make gunpowder.' 

" That ver}^ night Hudden and Dudden killed their mothers, 
and the next morning set off with them to town. On coming 
to the town with their burden on their backs, they went up 
and down crying, ' Who will bu}' old wives for gunpowder? ' so 
that every one laughed at them, and the boys at last clodded 
them out of the place. They then saw the cheat, and vowing 
revenge on Donald, buried the old women and set off in pur- 
suit of him. Coming to his house, the}^ found him* sitting at 
his breakfast, and seizing him, put him in a sack, and went to 
drown him in a river at some distance. As they were going 
along the highway they rai-sed a hare, which they saw had but 
three feet, and, throwing off the sack, ran after her, thinking 
by appearance she would be easily taken. In their ab&ence 
there came a drover that way, and hearing Donald singing in 
the sack, wondered greatly what could be the matter. ' What 
is the reason,' said he, ' that 3'ou are singing, and you con- 
fined?' 'Oh, I am going to heaven,' said Donald: 'and in 
a short time I expect to be free from trouble.' ' Oh, dear/ 
said the drover, ' what will I giA^e 3^ou if 3'ou let me to your 
place?' 'Indeed I do not know,' said he: ' it would take a 
good sum.' ' I have not much money,' said the drover ; ' but 
I have twent3' head of fine cattle, which I will give 3'Ou to ex- 
change places with me.' ^ Well, well,' says Donald, ' I don't 
care if I should: loose the sack and I will come out.' In a 
moment the drover liberated him, and went into the sack him- 
self: and Donald drove home the fine heifers and left them in 
his pasture. 

" Hudden and Dudden having caught the hare, returned, 
and getting the sack on one of their backs, carried Donald, as 
they thought, to the river, and threw him in, where he imme- 
diately sank. They then marched home, intending to take 
immediate possession of Donald's property ; but how great was 



172 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

their surprise, when they found him safe at home before them, 
with such a fine herd of cattle, whereas they knew he had none 
before? ' Donald,' said they, 'what is all this ! We thought 
3'ou were drowned, and 3'et j^ou are here before us?' ' Ah!' 
said he, ' if I had but help along with me when you threw me 
in, it would have been the best job ever I met with ; for of all 
the sight of cattle and gold that ever was seen, is there, and no 
one to own them ; but I was not able to manage more than 
what you see, and I could show you the spot where you might 
get hundreds.' They both swore they would be his friends, and 
Donald accordingly led them to a very deep part of the river, 
and lifting up a stone, ' Now,' said he, ' watch this,' throwing 
it into the stream. ' There is the very place, and go in, one of 
you, first, and if you want help you have nothing to do but 
call.' Hudden jumping in, and sinking to the bottom, rose up 
again, and making a bubbling noise as those do that are drown- 
ing, seemed trying to speak but could not. ' What is that he 
is saying now?' says Dudden. ' Faith,' sa^-s Donald, ' he is 
caUing for help — don't you hear him? Stand about,' con- 
tinued he, 'running back, ' till I leap in. I know how to do 
better than any of you.' Dudden, to have the advantage of 
him, jumped in ofl" the bank, and was drowned along with Hud- 
den. And this was the end of Hudden and Dudden." 

THE SPAEMAN. 

" A POOR man in the North of Ireland was under the neces- 
sit}^ of selling his cow to help to support his famil3^ Having 
sold his cow, he went into an inn and called for some liquor. 
Having drunk pretty heartil^^, he fell asleep, and when he awoke 
he found he had been robbed of his mone3\ Poor Roger was 
at a loss to know how to act ; and, as is often the case, when the 
landlord found that his mone3^ was gone, he turned him out of 
doors. The night was extremely dark, and the poor man was 
compelled to take up his lodging in an old uninhabited house at 
the end of the town. 

' ' Roger had not remained long here until he was surprised 
b3' the noise of three men, whom he observed making a hole, 
and, having deposited something therein, closing it carefull3^ up 
again and then going awsij. The next morning, as Roger was 
walking towards the town, he heard that a cloth-shop had been 
robbed to a great amount, and that a reward of thirt3' pounds 
was offered to any person who could discover the thieves. This 
was joyful news to Roger, who recollected what he had been 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 173 

witness to the night before. He accordingly went to the shop 
and told the gentleman that for the reward he would recover the 
goods, and secure the robbers, provided he got six stout men to 
attend him. All which was thankfull}^ granted him. 

" At night Roger and his men concealed themselves in the 
old house, and in a short time after the robbers came to the 
spot for the purpose of removing their boot}" ; but they were 
instantly seized and carried into the town prisoners, with the 
goods. Roger received the reward and returned home, well 
satisfied with his good luck. Not many days after, it was 
noised over the countr}^ that this robbery was discovered by the 
help of one of the best Spaemen to be found — insomuch that it 
reached the ears of a worthy gentleman of the county of Deny, 
who made strict inquiry to find him out. Having at length dis- 
covered his abode, he sent for Roger, and told him he was every 
day losing some valuable article, and as he was famed for dis- 
covering lost things, if he could find out the same, he should b© 
handsomely rewarded. Poor Roger was put to a stand, not 
knowing what answer to make, as he had not the smallest 
knowledge of the like. But recovering himself a little, he re- 
solved to humor the joke ; and, thinking he would make a good 
dinner and some drink of it, told the gentleman he would trj^ 
what he could do, but that he must have a room to himself for 
three hours, during which time he must have three bottles of 
strong ale and his dinner. All w^hich the gentleman told him 
he should have. No sooner was it made known that the Spae- 
man was in the house than the servants were all in confusion, 
wishing to know what would be said. 

" As soon as Roger had taken his dinner, he was shown into 
an elegant room, where the gentleman sent him a quart of ale 
by the butler. No sooner had he set down the ale than Roger 
said, ' There comes one of them ' (intimating the bargain he had 
made with the gentleman for the three quarts), which the butler 
took in a wrong light and imagined it was himself. He went 
away in great confusion and told his wife. ' Poor fool,' said 
she, ' the fear makes you think it is you he means ; but I will 
attend in your place, and hear what he will say to me.' Accord- 
ingly she carried the second quart: but no sooner had she 
opened the door than Roger cried, ' There comes two of them.* 
The woman, no less surprised than her husband, told him the 
Spaeman knew her too. 'And what will we do?' said he. 
' We will be hanged.' ' I will tell you what we must do,' said she : 
' we must send the groom the next time ; and if he is known, 
^e must offer him a good sum not to discover on us.' The 



174 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

butler went to William and told him the whole story, and that 
he must go next to see what the Spaeman would saj- to him, 
telling him at the same time what to do in case he was known 
also. When the hour was expired, William was sent with the 
third quart of ale — which when Roger observed, he cried out, 
' There is the third and last of them ! ' At which the groom 
changed color, and told him ' that if he would not discover on 
them, the}' would show him where the goods were all concealed 
and give him five pounds besides.' Roger, not a little sur- 
prised at the discovery he had made, told him ' if he recovered 
the goods, he would follow them no further.' 

" By this time the gentleman called Roger to know how he 
had succeeded. He told -him ' he could find the goods, but that 
the thief was gone.' ' I will be well satisfied,' said he, ' with 
the goods, for some of them are very valuable.' ' Let the 
butler come along with me, and the whole shall be recovered.' 
■ Roger was according^ conducted to the back of the stables, 
where the articles were concealed, — such as silver cups, spoons, 
bowls, knives, forks, and a variety of other articles of great 
value. 

"When the supposed Spaeman brought back the stolen 
goods, the gentleman was so highly pleased with Roger that he 
insisted on his remaining with him always, as he supposed he 
would be perfectly safe as long as he was about his house. 
Roger gladl}" embraced the offer, and in a few days took posses- 
sion of a piece of land which the gentleman had given to him 
in consideration of his great abilities. 

" Some time after this the gentleman was relating to a large 
compan}^ the discovery Roger had made, and tliat he could tell 
an^'thing. One of the gentlemen said he would dress a dish of 
iiieat, and bet fifty pounds that he could not tell what was in 
it, though he would allow him to taste it. The bet being taken 
and the dish dressed, the gentleman sent for Roger and told 
him the bet that was depending on him. Poor Roger did not 
know what to do ; but at last he consented to the trial. The 
dish being produced, he tasted it, but could not tell what it was. 
At last, seeing he was fairl}' beat, he said, ' Gentlemen, it is 
foll3' to talk : the fox may run a while, but he is caught at 
last,' — allowing with himself that he was found out. The gen- 
tleman that had made the bet then confessed that it was a fox 
he had dressed in the dish : at which they all shouted out in 
favor of the Spaeman, — particularly his master, who had more 
confidence in him than ever. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 



175 



Roger then went home, and so famous did he become, that 
no one dared take anything but what belonged to them, fearing 
that the Spaeman would discover on them. 



And so we shut up the Hedge-school Library, and close the 
Galway Nights' Entertainments. They are not quite so genteel 
as Almack's to be sure ; but many a lady who has her opera- 
box in London has listened to a piper in Ireland. 

Apropos of pipers, here is a 3^oung 
one that I caught and copied to-day. 
He was paddling in the mud, shining 
in the sun careless of his rays, and 
playing his little tin music as happy 
as Mr. Cooke with his oboe. 

Perhaps the above verses and tales 
are not unlike m}- little Galway mu- 
sician. They are grotesque and rug- 
ged ; but they are pretty and innocent 
hearted too ; and as such, polite per- 
sons may deign to look at them for 
once in away. While we have Signor 
Costa in a white neck-cloth ordering opera-bands to play for us 
the music of Donizetti, which is not only sublime but genteel : 
of course such poor little operatives as he who pla3^s the wind 
instrument yonder cannot expect to be heard often. But is not 
this Galway? and how far is Galway from the Haymarket? 




CHAPTER XVII. 



FROM GALWAY TO BALLINAHINCH. 

The Clifden car, which carries the Dublin letters into the 
heart of Connemara, conducts the passenger over one of the 
most wild and beautiful districts that it is ever the fortune of a 
traveller to examine ; and I could not help thinking, as we 
passed through it, at how much pains and expense honest Eng- 
lish cockneys are to go and look after natural beauties far in- 
ferior, in countries which, though more distant, are not a whit 
more strange than this one. No doubt, ere long, when people 



176 THE IRISH SKETCH BOC iv 

know how easy the task is, the rush of London tourism will 
come this way : and I shall be very happy if these pages shall 
be able to awaken in one bosom beating in Tooley Street or 
the Temple the desire to travel towards Ireland next 3"ear. 

After leaving the quaint old town behind us, and ascending 
one or two small eminences to the north-westward, the traveller, 
from the car, gets a view of the wide sheet of Lough Corrib 
shining in the sun, as we saw it, with its low dark banks stretch- 
ing round it. If the view is gloomy, at least it is characteristic : 
nor are we delayed by it very long ; for though the lake stretches 
northwards into the very midst of the Joyce country, (and is 
there in the close neighborhood of another huge lake. Lough 
Mask, which again is near to another sheet of water,) yet from 
this road henceforth, after keeping company with it for some 
five miles, we only get occasional views of it, passing over hills 
and through trees, by many rivers and smaller lakes, which are 
dependent upon that of Corrib. Gentlemen's seats, on the 
road from Galway to Moycullen, are scattered in great j^ro- 
fusion. Perhaps there is grass growing on the gravel-walk, 
and the iron gates of the tumble-down old lodges are rather 
rickety ; but, for all that, the places look comfortable, hospi- 
table, and spacious. As for the shabbiness and want of finish 
here and there, the English e3^e grows quite accustomed to it 
in a month : and I find the bad condition of the Galway houses 
by no means so painful as that of the places near Dublin. At 
some of the lodges, as we pass, the mail-carman, with a warn- 
ing shout, flings a bag of letters. I saw a little party looking 
at one which lay there in the road crjdng, " Come, take me ! " 
but nobody cares to steal a bag of letters in this country, I sup- 
pose, and the carman drove on without any alarm. Two da3^s 
afterwards ^a gentleman with whom I was in company left on a 
rock his book of fishing-flies ; and I can assure ,you there was 
a ver}^ different feeling expressed about the safet}^ of that. 

In the first part of the journey, the neighborhood of the road 
seemed to be as populous as in other parts of the country : 
troops of red-petticoated peasantry peering from their stone- 
cabins ; yelling children following the car, and crying, " Lash, 
lash ! " It was Sunday, and 3^ou would see many a white chapel 
among the green bare plains to the right of the road, the court- 
yard blackened with a swarm of cloaks. The service seems to 
continue (on the part of the people) all day. Troops of people 
issuing ft-om the chapel met us at Moycullen ; and ten miles 
further on, at Oughterard, their devotions did not yet seem to 
be concluded. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 177 

A more beautiful village can scarcel}'' be seen than this. It 
stands upon Lough Corrib, the banks of which are here, for 
once at least, picturesque and romantic : and a pretty river, 
the Feogh, comes rushing over rocks and by woods until it 
passes the town and meets the lake. Some pretty buildings in 
the village stand on each bank of this stream : a Roman Catholic 
chapel with a curate's neat lodge ; a little church on one side 
of it, a fine court-house of gra}' stone on the other. And here 
it is that we get into the famous district of Connemara, so cele- 
brated in Irish stories, so mysterious to the London tourist. 
" It presents itself," says the Guide-book, " under ever}^ pos- 
sible combination of heathy moor, bog, lake, and mountain. 
Extensive moss}' plains and wild pastoral valleys lie embosomed 
among the mountains, and support numerous herds of cattle 
and horses, for which the district has been long celebrated. 
These wild solitudes, which occupy b}' far the greater part of 
the centre of the country, are held b}^ a hardy and ancient race 
of grazing farmers, who live in a very primitive state, and, 
generally speaking, till little be3'ond what supplies their im- 
mediate wants. For the first ten miles the country is compara- 
tivety open ; and the mountains on the left, which are not ot 
great elevation, can be distinctl}^ traced as they rise along the 
edge of the heathy plain. 

" Our road continues along the Feogh river, which expands 
itself into several considerable lakes, and at five miles from 
Oughterard we reach Lough Bofin, which the road also skirts. 
Passing in succession Lough- a-Preaghan, the lakes of Anderran 
and Shindella, at ten miles from Oughterard we reach Slyme 
aiid Lynn's Inn, or Half-wa}^ House, which is near the shore 
of Loughonard. Now, as we advance towards the group of 
Binabola, or the Twelve Pins, the most gigantic scenery is dis- 
plaj'ed." 

But the best guide-book that ever was written cannot set the 
view before the mind's eye of the reader, and I won't attempt 
to pile up big words in place of these wild mountains, over 
which the clouds as they passed, or the sunshine as it went and 
came, cast ever}- varietj- of tint, light, and shadow ; nor can it 
be expected that long, level sentences, however smooth and 
shining, can be made to pass as representations of those calm 
lakes by which we took our wa3\ All one can do is to lay down 
the pen and ruminate, and cry, "Beautiful!" once more; and 
to the reader say, " Come and see ! " 

Wild and wide as the prospect around us is, it has somehow 
a kindly, friendly look ; differing in this from the fierce lone- 

12 



178 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

liness of some similar scenes in Wales that I have viewed. 
Ragged women and children come out of rude stone-huts to see 
the car as it passes. But it is impossible for the pencil to give 
due raggedness to the rags, or to convey a certain picturesque 
mellowness of color that the garments assume. The sexes, with 
regard to raiment, do not seem to be particular. There were 
many boys on the road in the national red petticoat, having no 
other covering for their lean brown legs. As for shoes, the 
women eschew them almost entirely ; and I saw a peasant 
trudging from mass in a handsome scarlet cloak, a fine blue- 
cloth gown, turned up to show a new lining of the same color, 
and a petticoat quite white and neat — in a dress of which the 
cost must have been at least iGt. ; and her husband walked in 
front carrying her shoes and stockings. 

The road had conducted us for miles through the vast property 
of the gentleman to whose house I was bound, Mr. Martin, the 
Member for the county ; and the last and prettiest part of the 
journey was round the Lake of Ballinahinch, with tall mountains 
rising immediately above us on the right, pleasant wood}^ liills 
on the opposite side of the lake, with the roofs of the houses 
rising above the trees ; and in an island in the midst of the 
water a ruined old castle cast a long white reflection into the 
blue waters where it lay. A land-pirate used to live in that 
castle, one of the peasants told me, in the time of " Oliver 
Cromwell." And a fine fastness it was for a robber, truly ; for 
there was no road through these wild countries in his time — 
nay, only thirty years since, this lake was at three days' dis- 
tance of Galway. Then comes the question, What, in a country 
where there were no roads and no travellers, and where the in- 
habitants have been wretchedly poor from time immemorial, — 
what was there for the land-pirate to rob ? But let us not be 
too curious about times so early as those of Oliver Cromwell. 
I have heard the name man}^ times from the Irish peasant, who 
still has an awe of the grim, resolute Protector. 

The builder of Ballinahinch House has placed it to command 
a view of a prett}^ melancholy river that runs by it, through 
mau}^ green flats and picturesque rocky grounds ; but from the 
lake it is scarcely visible. And so, in like manner, I fear it 
must remain invisible to the reader too, with all its kind in- 
mates, and frank, cordial hospitalit}' ; unless he may take a 
fancy to visit Galwa}^ himself, when, as I can vouch, a very small 
pretext will make him enjoy both. 

It will, however, be only a small breach of confidence to saj'- 
that the major-domo of the establishment (who has adopted ac- 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 179 

curatety the voice and manner of his master, with a severe dig- 
nit}' of his own which is quite original,) ordered me on going to 
bed " not to move in the morning till he called me," at the same 
time expressing a heart}^ hope that I should "want nothing 
more that evening." Who would dare, after such peremptory 
orders, not to fall asleep immediatel}^, and in this way disturb 
the repose of Mr. J — n M-ll-y ? 

There may be many comparisons drawn between English 
and Irish gentlemen's houses ; but perhaps the most striking 
point of difference between the two is the immense following of 
the Irish house, such as would make an English housekeeper 
crazy almost. Three comfortable, well-clothed, good-humored 
fellows walked down with me from the car, persisting in carry- 
ing one a bag, another a sketching-stool, and so on. Walking 
about the premises in the morning, sundry others were visible 
in the court-yard and near the kitchen-door. In the grounds a 
gentleman, by name Mr. Marcus C-rr, began discoursing to me 
regarding the place, the planting, the fish, the grouse, and the 
Master ; being himself, doubtless, one of the irregulars of the 
house. As for maids, there were half a score of them skurrjing 
about the house ; and I am not ashamed to confess that some 
of them were exceedingly good-looking. And if I might ven- 
ture to say a word more, it would be respecting Connemara 
breakfasts ; but this would be an entire and flagrant breach of 
confidence, and, to be sure, the dinners were just as good. 

One of the days of my three days' visit was to be devoted to 
the lakes ; and, as a partj^ had been arranged for the second 
day after mj^ arrival, I was glad to take advantage of the societ}' 
of a gentleman sta3ing in the house, and ride with him to the 
neisrhborins: town of Clifden. 

The ride thither from Ballinahinch is surprisingly beautiful ; 
and as 3'ou ascend the high ground from the two or three rude 
stone huts which face the entrance-gates of the house, there are 
views of the lakes and the surrounding country which the best 
parts of Killarne}^ do not surpass, I think ; although the Conne- 
mara lakes do not possess the advantage of wood which be- 
longs to the famous Kerr}^ landscape. 

But the cultivation of the country is only in its infancy as }■ et, 
and it is easy to see how vast its resources are, and what capi- 
tal and cultivation may do for it. In the green patches among 
the rocks, and on the mountain-sides, wherever crops were 
grown, they flourished ; plenty of natural wood is springing up 
in various places ; and there is no end to what the planter may 
doj and to what time and care ma}^ effect. The carriage-road 



180 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

to Clifden is but ten years old : as it has brought the means of 
communication into the country, the commerce will doubtless 
follow it ; and in fact, in going through the whole kingdom, 
one can't but be struck with the idea that not one hundredth 
part of its capabilities are yet brought into action, or even 
known perhaps, and that, by the eas}' and certain progress of 
time, Ireland will be poor Ireland no longer. 

For instance, we rode by a vast green plain, skirting a lake 
and river, which is now useless almost for pasture, and which 
a little draining will convert into thousands of acres of rich 
productive land. Streams and falls of water dash by every 
where — the}^ have only to utihze this water-power for mills and 
factories — and hard by are some of the finest bays in the world, 
where ships can deliver and receive foreign and home produce. 
At Roundstone especiall^^, where a little town has been erected, 
the bay is said to be unexampled for size, depth, and shelter ; 
and the Government is now, through the rocks and hills on their 
wild shore, cutting a coast-road to Bunown, the most westerly 
part of Connemara, whence there is another good road to Clif- 
den. Among the charges which the " Repealers " bring against 
the Union, they should include at least this : they would never 
have had these roads but for the Union : roads which are as 
much at the charge of the London tax-payer as of the most ill- 
used Milesian in Connaught. 

A string of small lakes follow the road to Clifden, with 
mountains on the right of the traveller for the chief part of the 
way. A few figures at work in the bog-lands, a red petticoat 
passing here and there, a goat or two browsing among the 
stones, or a troop of ragged whity-brown children who came 
out to gaze at the car, form the cliief society on the road. The 
first house at the entrance to Clifden is a gigantic poor-house — 
tall, large, ugly, comfortable ; it commands the town, and looks 
almost as big as every one of the houses therein. The town itself 
is but of a few years' date, and seems to thrive in its small way. 
Clifden Castle is a fine chateau in the neighborhood, and belongs 
to another owner of immense lands in Galway — Mr. D'Arcy. 

Here a drive was proposed along the coast to Bunown, and 
I was glad to see some more of the countr}^, and its character. 
Nothing can be wilder. We passed little lake after lake, lying 
a few furlongs inwards from the shore. There were rocks every- 
where, some patches of cultivated land here and there, nor was 
there any want of inhabitants along this savage coast. There 
were numerous cottages, if cottages they may be called, and 
women, and above all, children in plenty. Here is one of the 




Gazing at the Car. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 181 

former — her attitude as she stood gazing at the car. To 
depict the niultiplicity of her rags would require a month's 
stud}^ 

At length we came in sight of a half-built edifice which is 
approached b}' a rocky, dismal, gra}^ road, guarded by two or 
three broken gates, against which rocks and stones were piled, 
which had to be removed to give an entrance to our car. The 
gates were closed so laboriously, I presume, to prevent the 
egress of a single black consumptive pig, far gone in the family- 
way — a teeming skeleton — that was cropping the thin, dry 
grass that grew upon a round hiU which rises behind this most 
dismal castle of Bunown. 

If the traveller only seeks for strange sights, this place will 
repa}^ his curiosity. Such a dismal house is not to be seen in 
all England : or, perhaps, such a dismal situation. The sea 
lies before and behind ; and on each side, likewise, are rocks 
and copper-colored meadows, by which a few trees have made 
an attempt to grow. The owner of the house had, however, 
begun to add to it ; and there, unfinished, is a whole apparatus 
of turrets, and staring raw stone and mortar, and fresh ruinous 
carpenters' work. And then the court-yard! — tumbled-down 
out-houses, staring empty pointed windows, and new-smeared 
plaster cracking from the walls — a black heap of turf, a mouldy 
pump, a wretched okl coal-scuttle, emptily sunning itself in the 
midst of this cheerful scene ! There was an old Gorgon who 
kept the place, and wdio was in perfect unison wdth it : Venus 
herself would become bearded, blear-e3'ed, and haggard, if left 
to be the housekeeper of this dreary place. 

In the house was a comfortable parlor, inhabited by the 
priest, who has the painful charge of the district. Here were 
his books and his breviaries, his reading-desk w^ith the cross 
engraved upon it, and his portrait of Daniel O'Connell the 
Liberator to grace the walls of his lonel}^ cell. There was a 
dead crane hanging at the door on a gaff" : his red fish-like ej-es 
were staring open, and his eager grinning bill. A rifle-ball 
had passed through his body. And this was doubtless the only 
game about the place ; for we saw the sportsman who had 
killed the bird hunting vainly up the round hill for other food 
for powder. This gentleman had had good sport, he said, shoot- 
ing seals upon a neighboring island, four of which animals he 
had slain. 

Mounting up the round hill, we had a view of the Shne 
Lights — the most westerh^ point in Ireland. 

Here too was a ruined sort of summer-house, dedicated " Deo 



1S2 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

PIiBERXi^ LiBERATORi." When these lights were pat up, T am 
told the proprietor of Bunown was recommended to appl}- for 
compensation to Parliament, inasmuch as there would be no 
more wrecks on the coast : from which branch of commerce the 
inhabitants of the district used formerly to derive a consider- 
able profit. Between these Sline Lights and America nothing 
lies but the Atlantic. It was beautiful^ blue and bright on 
this day, and the sk}^ almost cloudless ; but I think the bright- 
ness only made the scene more dismal, it being of that order of 
beauties which cannot bear the full light, but require a cloud or 
a curtain to set them off to advantage. A prett}' story was told 
me by the gentleman who had killed the seals. The place where 
he had been staying for sport was almost as lonely as this Bun- 
own, and inhabited by a priest too — a young, livel}^, well- 
educated man. " When I came here first," the priest said, 
"i cried for two days:^' but afterwards he grew to like the 
place exceedingly, his whole heart being directed towards it, 
his chapel, and his cure. Who would not honor such mission- 
aries — the virtue they silentl}^ practise, and the doctrines the}^ 
preach? After hearing that story, I think Bunown looked not 
quite so dismal, as it is inhabited, the}^ sa}^, b}^ such another 
character. What a pity it is that John Tuam, in the next 
county of Mayo, could not find such another hermitage to learn 
modesty in, and forget his Graceship, his Lordship, and the 
sham titles by which he sets such store. 

A moon as round and bright as any moon that ever shone, 
and riding in a sky perfectly cloudless, gave us a good prom- 
ise of a fine da}^ for the morrow, which was to be devoted to 
the lakes in the neighborhood of Ballinahinch : one of which, 
Lough Ina, is said to be of exceeding beauty. But no man 
can speculate upon Irish weather. I have seen a day begin- 
ning with torrents of rain that looked as if a deluge was at 
hand, clear up in a few minutes, without any reason, and 
against the prognostications of the glass and all other weather- 
prophets. So in like manner, after the astonishingly fine night, 
there came a villanous dark day : which, however, did not set 
in fairly for rain, until we were an hour on our journey, with a 
couple of stout boatmen rowing us over Ballinahinch Lake. 
Being, however, thus fairly started, the water began to come 
down, not in torrents certainly, but in that steady, creeping, 
insinuating mist, of which we scarce know the luxury in Eng- 
land ; and which, I am bound to say, wiU wet a man's jacket as 
satisfactoril}' as a cataract would do. 

It was just such another day as that of the famous stag-hunt 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 183 

at Killarney, in a word ; and as, in the first instance, we went 
to see the deer killed, and saw nothing thereof, so, in the second 
case, we went to see the landscape with precisely the same good 
fortune. The mountains covered their modest beauties in im- 
penetrable veils of clouds ; and the onl}- consolation to the 
boat's crew was, that it was a remarkabl}- good da^' for trout- 
fishing — which amusement some people are said to prefer to 
the examination of landscapes, however beautiful. 

O 3'ou who laboriously throw flies in English rivers, and 
catch, at the expiration of a hard day's walking, casting, and 
evading, two or three feeble little brown trouts of two or three 
ounces in weight, how would you rejoice to have but an hour's 
sport in Derryclear or Ballinahinch ; where j^ou have but to 
cast, and lo ! a big trout springs at 3"our fl}-, and, after making 
a vain struggling, splashing, and plunging for a while, is infal- 
libly landed in the net and thence into the boat. The single 
rod in the boat caught enough fish in an hour to feast the 
crew, consisting of five persons, and the family of a herd of 
Mr. Martin's, who has a pretty cottage on Derrj^clear Lake, 
inhal^ited by a cow and its calf, a score of fowls, and I don't 
know how many sons and daughters. 

Having caught enough trout to satisfy any moderate appe- 
tite, like true sportsmen the gentlemen on board our boat 
became eager to hook a salmon. Had they hooked a few 
salmon, no doubt the}" would have trolled for whales, or for a 
mermaid ; one of which finny beauties the waterman swore he 
had seen on the shore of Derryclear — he with Jim Mullen 
being above on a rock, the mermaid on the shore directly 
beneath them, visible to the middle, and as usual ''racking 
her hair." It was fair hair, the boatman said ; and he ap- 
peared as convinced of the existence of the mermaid as he was 
of the trout just landed in the boat. 

In regard of mermaids, there is a gentleman living near 
Killala Bay, whose name was mentioned to me, and who de- 
clares solemnly that one day, shooting on the sands there, he 
saw a mermaid, and determined to try her with a shot. So he 
drew the small charge from his gun and loaded it with ball — 
that he always had by him for seal-shooting — fired, and hit 
the mermaid through the breast. The screams and moans of 
the creature — whose person he describes most accurately — 
were the most horrible, heart-rending noises that he ever, he 
said, heard ; and not only were they heard by him, but by the 
fishermen along the coast, who were furiously angry against 
Mr. A n, because, they said, the injury done to the mer- 



184 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

maid would cause her to drive all the fish away from the ba}^ 
for years to come^ 

But we did not, to my disappointment, catch a glimpse of 
one of these interesting beings, nor of the great sea-horse which 
is said to inhabit these waters, nor of any fairies (of whom the 
stroke-oar, Mr. Marcus, told us not to speak, for they didn't 
like bein' spoken of) ; nor even of a salmon, though the fishermen 
produced the most tempting flies. The only, animal of an}' 
size that was visible we saw while lying b}" a swift black river 
that comes jumping with innumerable little waves into Derry- 
clear, and where the salmon are especially suffered to ' ' stand : " 
this animal was an eagle — a real wild eagle, with gray wings 
and a white head and belly : it swept round us, within gunshot 
reach, once or twice, through the leaden sky, and then settled 
on a gray rock and began to scream its shrill, ghastly aquihne 
note. 

The attempts on the salmon having failed, the rain continu- 
ing to fall steadily, the herd's cottage before named was resorted 
to : when Marcus, the boatman, commenced forthwith to gut 
the fish, and taking down some charred turf-ashes from the 
blazing fire, on which about a hundredweight of potatoes were 
boiling, he — Marcus — proceeded to grill on the floor some of 
the trout, which we afterwards ate with immeasurable satisfac- 
tion. They were such trouts as, when once tasted, remain for 
ever in the recollection of a commonly grateful mind — rich, 
flak}^, creamy, full of flavor. A Parisian gourmand would have 
paid ten francs for the smallest cooleen among them ; and, when 
transported to his capital, how different in flavor would they 
have been ! — how inferior to what thc}^ were as we devoured 
them, fresh from the fresh waters of the lake, and jerked as it 
were from the water to the gridiron ! The world had not had 
time to spoil those innocent beings before they were gobbled 
up with pepper and salt, and missed, no doubt, by their friends. 
I should like to know more of their ' ' set.'' But enough of this : 
my feelings overpower me : suffice it to say, they were red or 
salmon trouts — none of your white-fleshed brown-skinned river 
fellows. 

When the gentlemen had finished their repast, the boatmen 
and the family set to work upon the ton of potatoes, a number 
of the remaining fish, and a store of other good things ; then 
we all sat round the turf-fire in the dark cottage, the rain coming 
down steadily outside, and veiling everything except the shrubs 
and verdure immediately about the cottage. The herd, the 
herd's wife, and a nondescript female friend, two healthy young 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 185 

herdsmen in corduroy rags, the herdsman's daughter paddling 
about with bare feet, a stout black-e3^ed wench with her gown 
over her head and a red petticoat not quite so good as new, 
the two boatmen, a badger just killed and turned inside out, 
the gentlemen, some hens cackling and flapping about among 
the rafters, a calf in a corner cropping green meat and occa- 
sionally visited b}^ the cow her mamma, formed the society of 
the place. It was rather a strange picture ; but as for about 
two hours we sat there, and maintained an almost unbroken 
silence, and as there was no other amusement but to look at 
the rain, I began, after the enthusiasm of the first half-hour, to 
think that after all London was a bearable place, and that for 
want of a turf-fire and a bench in Connemara, one might put 
up with a sofa and a newspaper in Pall Mall. 

This, however, is according to tastes ; and I must say that 
Mr. Marcus betrayed a most bitter contempt for all cockney 
tastes, awkwardness, and ignorance : and very right too. The 
night, on our return home, all of a sudden cleared ; but though 
the fishermen, much to my disgust — at the expression of 
which, however, the rascals only laughed — persisted in making 
more casts for trout, and trying back in the dark upon the 
spots which we had visited in the morning, it appeared the fish 
had been frightened oflT by the rain ; and the sportsmen met 
with such indifferent success that at about ten o'clock we found 
ourselves at Ballinahinch. Dinner was served at eleven, and, 
I believe, there was some whiskey-punch afterwards, recom- 
mended medicinally and to prevent the ill effects of the wetting : 
but that is neither here nor there. 

The next day the petty sessions were to be held at Round- 
stone, a little town which has lately sprung up near the noble 
bay of that name. I was glad to see some specimens of Con- 
nemara litigation, as also to behold at least one thousand beau- 
tiful views that lie on the five miles of road between the town 
and Ballinahinch. Rivers and rocks, mountains and sea, green 
plains and bright skies, how (for the hundred-and-fiftieth time) 
can pen-and-ink set you down? But if Berghem could have 
seen those blue mountains, and Karel Dujardin could have 
copied some of these green, airy plains, with their brilliant 
little colored groups of peasants, beggars, horsemen, man}' an 
Englishman would know Connemara upon canvas as he does 
Italy or Flanders now. 



186 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

ROUNDSTONE PETTY SESSIONS. 

"The temple of august Themis," as a Frenchman would 
call the sessions-room at Roundstone, is an apartment of some 
twelve feet square, with a deal table and a couple of chairs for 
the accommodation of the magistrates, and a Testament with 
a paper cross pasted on it to be kissed b}^ the witnesses and 
complainants who frequent the court. The law-papers, war- 
rants, &c., are kept on the sessions-clerk's bed in an adjoining 
apartment, which commands a fine view of the court-j'ard — 
where there is a stack of turf, a pig, and a shed beneath which 
the magistrates' horses were sheltered during the sitting. The 
sessions-clerk is a gentleman "having," as the phrase is here, 
both the English and Irisli languages, and interpreting for the 
benefit of the worshipful bench. 

And if the cockney reader supposes that in this remote 
country spot, so wild, so beautiful, so distant from the hum 
and vice of cities, quarrelling is not, and litigation never shows 
her snak}' head, he is verj'' much mistaken. From what I saw, 
I would recommend any ingenious young attorney whose merits 
are not appreciated in the metropolis, to make an attempt upon 
the village of Roundstone ; where as yet, I believe, there is no 
solicitor, and where an immense and increasing practice might 
speedily be secured. Mr. O'Connell, who is always crying 
out " Justice for Ireland," finds strong supporters among the 
Roundstonians, whose love of justice for themselves is inordi- 
nate. I took down the plots of the five first little litigious 
dramas which were played before Mr. Martin and the stipen- 
diary magistrate. 

Case I. — A boj' summoned a 3'oung man for beating him 
so severely that he kept his bed for a week, thereby breaking 
an engagement with his master, and losing a quarter's wages. 

The defendant stated in repty, that the plaintiff was engaged 
— in a field through which defendant passed with another per- 
son — setting two little bo3's to fight ; on which defendant took 
plaintiflT by the collar and turned him out of the field. A wit- 
ness w^ho was present swore that defendant never struck plain- 
tiflT at all, nor kicked him, nor ill-used him, further than bj 
pushing him out of the field. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 187 

As to the loss of his quarter's wages, the plaintiff ingen- 
iously proved that he had afterwards returned to his master, 
that he had worked out his time, and that he had in fact re- 
ceived alread}^ the greater part of his hire. Upon which the 
case was dismissed, the defendant quitting court without a stain 
upon his honor. 

Case 2 was a most piteous and lamentable case of killing 
a cow. The plaintiff stepped forward with many tears and 
much gesticulation to state the fact, and also to declare that she 
was in danger of her life from the defendant's family. 

It appeared on the evidence that a portion of the defendant's 
respectable family are at present undergoing the rewards which 
the law assigns to those who make mistakes in fields with re- 
gard to the ownership of sheep which sometimes graze there. 
The defendant's father, O'Damon, for having appropriated one 
of the fleecy bleaters of O'Meliboeus, was at present passed 
beyond sea to a countrj^ where wool, and consequently mutton, 
is so plentiful, that he will have the less temptation. Defend 
ant's brothers tread the Ixionic wheel for the same offence. 
Plaintiff's son had been the informer in the case: hence the 
feud between the families, the threats on the part of the de- 
fendant, the murder of the innocent cow. 

But upon investigation of the business, it was discovered, 
and on the plaintiffs own testimony, that the cow had not been 
killed, nor even been injured ; but that the defendant had flung 
two stones at it, which 7night have inflicted great injury had they 
hit the animal with greater force in the eje or in any delicate 
place. 

Defendant admitted flinging the stones, but alleged as a 
reason that the cow was trespassing on his grounds ; which 
plaintiff did not seem inclined to deny. Case dismissed. — 
Defendant retires with unblemished honor ; on which his mother 
steps forward, and lifting up her hands with tears and shrieks, 
calls upon God to witness that the defendant's own brother-in- 
law had sold to her husband the very sheep on account of which 
he had been transported. 

Not wishing probabl}^ to doubt the justice of the verdict of 
an Irish jury, the magistrate abruptl}" put an end to the lam- 
entation and oaths of the injured woman by causing her to be 
sent out of court, and called the third cause on. 

This was a case of thrilling interest and a complicated nature, 
involving two actions, which ought each perhaps to have been 
gone into separatel}^, but were taken together. In the first 
place Timothy Horgan brought an action against Patrick Dolan 



188 THE IKISH SKETCH BOOK. 

for breach of contract in not remaining with him for the whole 
of six months during which Dolan had agreed to serve Morgan. 
Then Dolan brought an action against Morgan for not pajing 
him his wages for six months' labor done — the wages being 
two guineas. 

Morgan at once, and with much candor, withdrew his charge 
against Dolan, that the latter had not remained with him for six 
months : nor can I understand to this da}^ wh}' in the first place 
he swore to the charge, and why afterwards he withdrew it. 
But immediately advancing another charge against his late servant 
he pleaded that he had given him a suit of clothes, which should 
be considered as a set-off against part of the monej^ claimed. 

Now such a suit of clothes as poor Dolan had was never 
seen — I will not say merely on an EngUsh scarecrow, but 
on an Irish beggar. Strips of rags fell over the honest fellow's 
great brawny chest, and the covering on his big brown legs 
hung on by a wonder. Me held out his arms with a grim smile, 
and told his worship to look at the clothes ! The argument was 
irresistible : Morgan was ordered to pay forthwith. Me ought 
to have been made to pay another guinea for clothing a fellow- 
creature in rags so abominable. 

And now came a case of trespass, in which there was nothing 
interesting but the attitude of the poor woman who trespassed, 
and who meekl}^ acknowledged the fact. She stated, howev^er, 
that she only got over the wall as a short cut home ; but the wall 
was eight feet high, with a ditch too ; and I fear there were cab- 
bages or potatoes in the inclosure. They fined her a sixpence, 
and she could not pay it, and went to gaol for three days — 
where she and her ba^ at any rate will get a meal. 

Last on the list which I took down came a man who will 
make the fortune of the London attorne}' that I hope is on his 
way hither : a rather old, curly -headed man, with a sly smile per- 
petually lying on his face (the reader may give whatever inter- 
pretation he please to the" lying"). Me comes before the 
court almost every fortnight, they say, with a complaint of one 
kind or other. Mis present charge was against a man for 
breaking into his court-yard, and wishing to take possession 
of the same. It appeared that he, the defendant, and another 
lived in a row of houses : the plaintiff's house was, however, 
first built ; and as his agreement specified that the plot of 
ground behind his house should be his likewise, he chose to 
imagine that the plot of ground behind all the three houses was 
his, and built his turf-stack against his neighbor's window. 
The magistrates of course pronounced against this ingenious 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 189 

discoverer of wrongs, and he left the court still smiling and 
twisting round his little wicked eyes, and declaring solemnly 
that he would put in an appale. If one could have purchased 
a kicking at a moderate price off that fellow's back, it would 
have been a pleasant httle piece of self-indulgence, and I confess 
I longed to ask him the price of the article. 

And so, after a few more such great cases, the court rose, 
and I had leisure to make moral reflections, if so minded : 
sighing to think that cruelty and falsehood, selfishness and 
rapacity, dwell not in crowds alone, but flourish all the world 
over — sweet flowers of human nature, they bloom in all 
climates and seasons, and are just as much at home in a hot- 
house in Thavies' Inn as on a lone mountain or a rocky sea-coast 
in Ireland, where never a tree will grow ! 

We walked along this coast, after the judicial proceedings 
were over, to see the countr}^ and the new road that the Board 
of Works is forming. Such a wilderness of rocks I never 
saw ! The district for miles is covered with huge stones, shining 
white in patches of green, with the Binabola on one side of the 
spectator, and the Atlantic running in and out of a thousand 
little bays on the other. The country is very hill}^, or wavy 
rather, being a sort of ocean petrified ; and the engineers have 
hard work with these numerous abrupt little ascents and de- 
scents, which they equalize as best they maj^ — by blasting, cut- 
ting, filling cavities, and levelling eminences. Some hundreds 
of men were emploj^ed at this work, bus}^ with their hand-bar- 
rows, their picking and boring. Their pay is eighteenpence a 
day. 

There is little to see in the town of Roundstone, except a 
Presbyterian chapel in process of erection — that seems big 
enough to accommodate the Presbyterians of the county — and 
a sort of lay convent, being a community of brothers of the 
third order of Saint Francis. They are all artisans and work- 
men, taking no vows, but living together in common, and under- 
going a certain religious regimen. Their work is said to be very 
good, and all are employed upon some labor or other. On the 
front of this unpretending little dwelling is an inscription with 
a great deal of pretence, stating that the establishment was 
founded with the approbation of " His Grace the Most Rev- 
erend the Lord Archbishop of Tuam." 

The Most Reverend Dr. MacHale is a clergyman of great 
learning, talents, and honesty, but his Grace the Lord Arch- 
bishop of Tuam strikes me as being no better than a moun- 
tebank ; and some dav I hope even his own party will laugh 



190 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

this humbug down. It is bad enough to be awed by big titles 
at all ; but to respect sham ones ! — O stars and garters ! 
We shall have his Grace the Lord Chief Rabbi next, or his 
Lordship the Arch-Imaum ! 



CHAPTER XrX. 

CLIFDEN TO WESTPORT. ^ 

On leaving Ballinahinch (with sincere regret, as any lonely 
tourist may imagine, who is called upon to quit the hospitable 
friendliness of such a place and society) , my way lay back to 
Clifden again, and thence through the Jo^'ce country, by the 
Killery mountains, to Westport in Mayo. The road, amount- 
ing in all to four-and-forty Irish miles, is performed in cars, in 
different periods of time, according to your horse and your 
luck. Sometimes, both being bad, the traveller is two days 
on the road ; sometimes a dozen hours will suffice for the jour- 
ney — which was the case with me, though I confess to having 
found the twelve hours long enough. After leaving Clifden, 
jhe friendly look of the countr}^ seemed to vanish ; and though 
picturesque enough, was a thought too wild and dismal for eyes 
accustomed to admire a hop-garden in Kent, or a view of rich 
meadows in Surre}^ with a clump of trees and a comfortable 
village spire. " Inglis," the Guide-book says, " compares the 
scenes to the Norwegian Fiords." Well, the Norwegian Fiords 
must, in this case, be very dismal sigfets ! and I own that the 
wildness of Hampstead Heath (with the imposing walls of 
" Jack Straw's Castle " rising stern in the midst of the green 
wilderness) is more to my taste than the general views of yes- 
terday. 

We skirted by lake after lake, lying lonely in the midst of 
lonely boglands, or bathing the sides of mountains robed in 
sombre rifle green. Two or three men, and as many huts, 
you see in the course of each mile perhaps, as toiling up the 
bleak hills, or jingling more rapidly down them, you pass 
through this sad region. In the midst of the wilderness a 
chapel stands here and there, solitary, on the hillside ; or a 
ruinous, useless school-house, its pale walls contrasting with 
the general surrounding hue of sombre purple and green. 
But though the country looks more dismal than Connemara, 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 191 

it is clear!}' more fertile : we passed miles of graund that evi- 
dently wanted but little cultivation to make them profitable ; 
and along the mountain-sides, in many places, and over a great 
extent of Mr. Blake's countr}^ especiallj^, the hills were covered 
with a thick natural plantation, that may yield a little brush- 
wood now, but might in fifty years' time brhig thousands of 
pounds of revenue to the descendants of the Blakes. This 
spectacle of a country going to waste is enough to make the 
cheerfullest landscape look dismal : it gives this wild district 
a woful look indeed. The names of the lakes by which we 
came I noted down in a pocket-book as we passed along ; but 
the names were Irish, the car was rattling, and the only name 
readable in the catalogue is Letterfrack. 

The little hamlet of Leenane is at twent}' miles' distance 
from Clifden ; and to arrive at it, you skirt the mountain along- 
one side of a vast pass, through which the ocean runs from 
Killery Ba}' , separating the mountains of Mayo from the moun- 
tains of Galway. Nothing can be more grand and gloomy 
than this pass ; and as for the character of the scenery, it must, 
as the Guide-book saj's, " be seen to be understood." Mean- 
while, let the reader imagine huge dark mountains in their 
accustomed livery of purple and green, a dull gray sk}- above 
them, an estuar}^ silver-bright below : in the water lies a fisher- 
man's boat or two ; a pair of seagulls undulating with the little 
waves of the water ; a pair of curlews wheeling overhead and 
piping on the wing ; and on the hillside a jingling car, with a 
cockney in it, oppressed by and yet admiring all these things. 
Many a sketcher and tourist, as I found, has visited this pic- 
turesque spot : for the hostess of the inn had stories of English 
and American painters, and of illustrious book-writers too, 
travelling in the service of our Lords of Paternoster Row. 

The landlord's son of Clifden, a very intelligent young 
fellow, was here exchanged for a new carman in the person of 
a raw Irisher of twenty 3'ears of age, " having" little English, 
and dressed in that very pair of pantaloons which Humphrey 
CUnker was compelled to cast off some years since on account 
of the oflfence which they gave to Mrs. Tabitha Bramble. This 
fellow, emerging from among the boats, went off to a field to 
seek for the black horse, which the landlady assured me was 
quite fresh and had not been out all day, and would carry me 
to Westport in three hours. Meanwhile I was lodged in a 
neat little parlor, surve3'ing the Ma3'o side of the water, with 
some cultivated fields and a show of a village at the spot where 
the estuary ends, and above them lodges and fine dark plauta- 



192 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 



tions climbing over the dark hills that lead to Lord Sligo's seat 
of Delphi. Presently, with a curtsy, came a young woman who 
sold worsted socks at a shilling a pair, and whose portrait is 
here given. 

It required no small pains 
to entice this rustic beauty to 
stand while a sketch should be 
made of her. Nor did any 
compliments or cajolements, 
on my part or the landlady's, 
bring about the matter : it was 
not until money was offered 
that the lovel}^ creature con- 
sented. I offered (such is the 
ardor of the real artist) either 
to give her sixpence, or to 
purchase two pairs of her 
socks, if she would stand still 
for five minutes. On which 
she said she would prefer sell- 
ing the socks. Then she stood 
still for a moment in the corner 



of the room ; then she turned 
her face towards the corner 
and the other part of her per- 
exclaimed in that attitude, "I 
Then I told her to go to the 
deuce. Then she made a proposition, involving the stockings 
and sixpence, which was similarl}^ rejected ; and, finally, the 
above splendid design was completed at the price first stated. 

However, as we went off, this timid little dove barred the 
door for a moment, and said that " I ought to give her another 
shilling ; that a gentleman would give her another shilling," 
and so on. She might have trod the London streets for ten 
years and not have been more impudent and more greedy. 

^y this time the famous fresh horse was produced and the 
driver, by means of a wraprascal, had covered a great part of 
the rags of his lower garment. He carried a whip and a stick, 
the former lying across his knees ornamentall}^ the latter being 
for service ; and as his feet were directl}^ under the horse's tail, 
he had full command of the brute's back, and belabored it for 
six hours without ceasing. 

What little English the fellow knew he uttered with a howl, 
roaring into my ear answers — which, for the most part, were 




son towards 
must have s 



and 



the artist, 
shillino* more. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 193 

wrong — to various questions put to him. The lad's voice was 
so hideous, that I asked him if he could sing ; on which forth- 
with he began 3^elling a most horrible Irish ditty — of which he 
told me the title, that I have forgotten. He sang three stan- 
zas, certainly keeping a kind of tune, and the latter lines of 
each verse were in rhyme ; but when I asked him the meaning 
of the song, he onl}' roared out its Irish title. 

On questioning the driver further, it turned out that the 
horse, warranted fresh, had already performed a journey of 
eighteen miles that morning, and the consequence was that I 
had full leisure to survey the countr}^ through which we passed. 
There were more lakes, more mountains, more bog, and an 
excellent road through this lonel}" district, though few onlj' of 
the human race enlivened it. At ten miles from Leenane, we 
stopped at a roadside hut, where the driver pulled out a bag of 
oats, and borrowing an iron pot from the good people, half 
filled it with corn, which the poor tired, galled, be whipped 
black horse began eagerh^ to devour. The young charioteer 
himself hinted very broadl}' his desire for a glass of whiskey, 
which was the only kind of refreshment that this remote house 
of entertainment supplied. 

In the various cabins I have entered, I have found talking 
a vain matter : the people are suspicious of the stranger within 
their wretched gates, and are sh}-, si}', and silent. I have, 
commonly, only been able to get half-answers in reply to my 
questions, given in a manner that seemed plainly to intimate 
that the visit was unwelcome. In this rude hostel, however, 
the landlord was a little less reserved, offered a seat at the 
turf-fire, where a painter might have had a good Subject for 
his skill. There was no chimney, but a hole in the roof, up 
which a small portion of the smoke ascended (the rest prefer- 
ring an egress by the door, or else to remain in the apartment 
altogether) ; and this liglit from above lighted up as rude a set 
of figures as ever were seen. There were two brown women 
with black eyes and locks, the one knitting stockings on 
the floor, the other " racking" (with that natural comb which 
five horny fingers suppl}') the elf-locks of a dirt}- urchin between 
her knees. An idle fellow was smoking his pipe by tlie fire ; 
and by his side sat a stranger, who had been made welcome 
to the shelter of the place — a sicldy, well-looking man, whom 
I mistook for a deserter at first, for he had evidently been a 
soldier. 

But there was nothing so romantic as desertion in his history. 
He had been in the Dragoons, but his mother had purchased his 



194 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

discbarge : he was married, and had lived comfortably in Cork 
for some time, in the glass-blowing business. Trade failing at 
Cork, he had gone to Belfast to seek for work. There was no 
work at Belfast ; and he was so far on his road home again : 
sick, without a penn}^ in the world, a hundred and fifty miles 
to travel, and a starving wife and children to receive him at 
his journey's end. He had been thrown off a caravan that day, 
and had almost broken his back in the fall. Here was a cheer- 
ing story ! I wonder where he is now : how far has the poor 
starving lonelj^ man advanced over that weary desolate road, 
that in good health, and with a horse to cany me, I thought it 
a penalty to cross ? What would one do under such circum- 
stances, with solitude and hunger for present company, despair 
and starvation at the end of the vista? There are a score of 
lonel}' lakes along the road which he has to pass : would it be 
well to stop at one of them, and fling into it the wretched load 
of cares which that poor broken back has to carry? Would 
the world he would light on then be worse for him than that 
he is pining in now ? Heaven help us ! and on this ver}^ day, 
throughout the three kingdoms, there are a million such stories 
to be told. Who dare doubt of heaven after that? of a place 
where there is at last a welcome to the heart-stricken prodigal 
and a happy home to the wretched ? 

The crumbs of oats which fell from the mouth of the feasting 
Dives of a horse were battled for outside the door b}^ a dozen 
Lazaruses in the shape of fowls ; and a lanky young pig, w^ho 
had been grunting in an old chest in the cabin, or in a miserable 
recess of huddled rags and straw which formed the couch of the 
family, presently came out and drove the poultry awa}^ picking 
up, with great accuracy, the solitary grains lying about, and 
more than once trying to shove his snout into the corn-pot, and 
share with the wretched old galled horse. Whether it was that 
he was refreshed by his meal, or that the car-boy was invigorated 
by his glass of whiskey, or inflamed by the sight of eighteen- 
pence — which munificent sum was tendered to the soldier — I 
don't know ; but the remaining eight miles of the journe}^ were 
got over in much quicker time, although the road was exceed- 
ingl}^ bad and hilly for the greatest part of the way to West- 
port. However, by running up the hills at the pony's side, the 
animal, fired with emulation, trotted up them too — descending 
them with the proverbial surefootedness of his race, the car and 
he bouncing over the rocks and stones at the rate of at least 
four Irish miles an hour. 

At about five miles from Westport the cultivation became 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 195 

much more frequent. There were plantations upon the hills, 
yellow corn and potatoes in plent}^ in the fields, and houses 
thickly scattered. We had the satisfaction, too, of knowing 
that future tourists will have an excellent road to travel over in 
this district : for by the side of the old road, which runs up and 
down a hundred little rocky steeps, according to the ancient 
plan, you see a new one running for several miles, — the latter 
way being conducted, not over the hills, but around them, and, 
considering the circumstances of the country, extremely broad 
and even. The car-boy presently yelled out " Reek, Reek ! " 
with a shriek perfectly appalling. This howl was to signify that 
we were in sight of that famous conical mountain so named, and 
from which St. Patrick, after inveigling thither all the venomous 
reptiles in Ireland, precipitated the whole noisome race into Clew 
Bay. The road also for several miles was covered with people, 
who were flocking in hundreds from Westport market, in cars 
and carts, on horseback single and double, and on foot. 

And presently, from an eminence, I caught sight not only of 
a fine view, but of the most beautiful view I ever saw in the 
world, I think ; and to enjoy the splendor of which I would 
travel a hundred miles in that car with that very horse and 
driver. The sun was just about to set, and the country round 
about and to the east was almost in twilight. The mountains 
were tumbled about in a thousand fantastic ways, and swarm- 
ing with people. Trees, cornfields, cottages, made the scene 
indescribably cheerful ; noble woods stretched towards the sea, 
and abutting on them, between two highlands, lay the smoking 
town. Hard by was a large Gothic building — it is but a poor- 
*ouse ; but it looked hke a grand castle in the gray evening. 
But the Bay — and the Reek which sweeps down to the sea — • 
and a hundred islands in it, were dressed up in gold and purple 
and crimson, with the whole cloudy west in a flame. Wonder- 
ful, wonderful ! . . . The valleys in tiie road to Leenane have lost 
all glimpses of the sun ere this ; and I suppose there is not a 
soul to be seen in the black landscape, or by the shores of the 
ghastly lakes, where the poor glass-blower from the whiske; 
shop is faintly travelling now. 



196 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

CHAPTER XX. 

WESTPORT. 

Nature has done much for this pretty town of Westport ; 
and after nature, the traveller ought to be thankful to Lord 
Sligo, who has done a great deal too. In the first place, he 
has established one of the prettiest, comfortablest inns in Ire- 
land, in the best part of his little town, stocking the cellars with 
good wines, fiUing the house with neat furniture, and lending, 
it is said, the whole to a landlord gratis, on condition that he 
should keep the house warm, and furnish the larder, and enter- 
tain the traveller. Secondl}', Lord Sligo has given up for the 
use of the townspeople, a beautiful little pleasure-ground about 
his house. "You may depend upon it," said a Scotchman at 
the inn, "that the3^'ve right of pathway- through the groonds, 
and that the marquess couldn't shut them oot." Which is a 
pretty fair specimen of charit}^ in this world — this kind w^orld, 
that is always ready to encourage and applaud good actions, 
and find good motives for the same. I wonder how much would 
induce that Scotchman to allow poor people to walk in his park, 
if he had one ! 

In the midst of this pleasure-ground, and surrounded by a 
thousand fine trees, dressed up in all sorts of verdure, stands 
a pretty little church ; paths through the wood lead pleasantly 
down to the bay ; and, as we walked down to it on the da^ 
after our arrival, one of the green fields was suddenh' black 
with rooks, making a huge cawing and clanging as they settled 
down to feed. The house, a handsome massive structure, must 
command noble views of the ba}', over which all the colors of 
Titian were spread as the sun set behind its purple islands. 

Printer's ink will not give these wonderful hues ; and the 
reader will make his picture at his leisure. That conical moun- 
tain to the left is Croaghpatrick : it is clothed in the most mag- 
nificent violet-color, and a couple of round clouds were exploding 
as it were from the summit, that part of them towards the sea 
lighted up with the most delicate gold and rose color. In the 
centre is the Clare Island, of which the edges were bright cobalt, 
whilst the middle was lighted up with a brilliant scarlet tinge, 
such as I would have laughed at in a picture, never having seen 
in nature before, but looked at now with wonder and pleasure 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 197 

until the hue disappeared as the sun went away. The islands 
in the bay (which was of a gold color) looked like so many 
dolphins and whales basking there. The rich park-woods 
stretched down to the shore ; and the immediate foreground 
consisted of a yellow cornfield, whereon stood innumerable 
shocks of corn, casting immense lonp* purple shadows over the 
stubble. The farmer, with som.e little ones about him, was 
superintending his reapers ; and I heard him say to a little girl, 
" Norey, I love you the best of all my children ! " Presently, 
one of the reapers coming up, says, '' It's always the custom in 
these parts to ask strange gentlemen to give something to drink 
the first day of reaping ; and we'd like to drink ^^our honor's 
health in a bowl of coffee. " O fortunatos nimium ! The cockney 
takes out sixpence, and thinks that he never passed such a 
pleasant half-hour in all his life as in that cornfield, looking at 
that wonderful bay. 

A car which I had ordered presently joined me from the 
town, and going down a green lane very like England, and 
across a causeway near a building where the carman proposed 
to show me ''me lard's caffin that he brought from Rome, and 
a mighty big caffin entirelj^," we came close upon the water 
and the port. There was a long handsome pier (which, no 
doubt, remains at this present minute), and one solitary cutter 
lying alongside it ; which may or ma}^ not be there now. There 
were about three boats lying near the cutter, and six sailors, 
with long shadows, lolling about the pier. As for the ware- 
houses, they are enormous ; and might accommodate, I should 
think, not only the trade of Westport, but of Manchester too. 
There are huge streets of these houses, ten stories high, with 
cranes, owners' names, &c., marked Wine Stores, Flour Stores, 
Bonded Tobacco Warehouses, and so forth. The six sailors 
that were singing on the pier no doubt are each admirals of 
as many fleets of a hundred sail that bring wines and tobacco 
from all quarters of the world to fill these enormous warehouses. 
These dismal mausoleums, as vast as pyramids, are the places 
where the dead trade of Westport lies buried — a trade that, in 
its lifetime, probably was about as big as a mouse. Nor is this 
the first nor the hundredth place to be seen in this country, 
which sanguine builders have erected to accommodate an imagi- 
nar}' commerce. Mill-owners over-mill themselves, merchants 
over-warehouse themselves, squires over-castle themselves, lit- 
tle tradesmen about Dublin and the cities over-villa and over-gig 
themselves, and we hear sad tales about hereditary bondage and 
the accursed tyranny of England. 



198 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

Passing out of this drear}^, pseudo-commercial port, the road 
la}^ along the beautiful shores of Clew Bay, adorned with many 
a ricket}' villa and pleasure-house, from the cracked windows 
of which ma}' be seen one of the noblest views in the world. 
One of the villas the guide pointed out with peculiar exultation : 
it is called by a grand name — Waterloo Park, and has a lodge, 
and a gate, and a field of a couple of acres, and belongs to a 
young gentleman who, being able to write Waterloo Park on his 
card, succeeded in carrying off a young London heiress with a 
hundred thousand pounds. The young couple had just arrived, 
and one of them must have been rather astonished, no doubt, 
at the "park." But what will not love do? With love and 
a hundred thousand pounds, a cottage may be made to look 
like a castle, and a park of two acres ma}' be brought to extend 
for a mile. The night began now to fall, wrapping up in a 
sober gray liver}- the bay and mountains, which had just been 
so gorgeous in sunset ; and we turned our backs presently upon 
the bay, and the villas with the cracked windows, and scaling 
a road of perpetual ups and downs, went back to Westport. 
On the way was a pretty cemetery, lying on each side of the 
road, with a ruined chapel for the ornament of one division, a 
holy well for the other. In the holy well lives a sacred trout, 
whom sick people come to consult, and who operates great 
cures in the neighborhood. If the patient sees the trout float- 
ing on his back, he dies ; if on his belly, he lives ; or vice versa. 
The little spot is old, ivy-grown, and picturesque, and I can't 
fancy a better place for a pilgrim to kneel and say his beads at. 

But considering the whole country goes to mass, and that 
the priests can govern it as they will, teaching what shall be 
believed and what shall be not credited, would it not be well 
for their reverences, in the year eighteen hundred and forty- 
two, to discourage these absurd lies and superstitions, and teach 
some simple truths to their flock? Leave such figments to 
magazine-writers and ballad-makers ; but, corbleu ! it makes 
one indignant to think that people in the United Kingdom, 
where a press is at work and good sense is abroad, and clergy- 
men are eager to educate the people, should countenance such 
savage superstitions and silly, grovelling heathenisms. 

The chapel is before the inn where I resided, and on Sunday, 
from a very early hour, the side of the street was thronged with 
worshippers, who came to attend the various services. Nor 
are the Catholics the only devout people of this remote district. 
There is a large Presbyterian church very well attended, as was 
the Established Church service in the pretty church in the park. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 199 

There was no organ, but the clerk and a choir of children sang 
hymns sweetly and truly ; and a charity sermon being preached 
for the benefit of the diocesan schools, I saw many pound-notes 
in the plate, showing that the Protestants here were as ardent as 
their Roman Catholic brethren. The sermon was extempore, 
as usual, according to the prevailing taste here. The preacher 
by putting aside his sermon-book may gain in warmth, which 
we don't want, but lose in reason, which we do. If I were 
Defender of the Faith, I would issue an order to all priests and 
deacons to take to the book again ; weighing well, before they 
uttered it, every word they proposed to say upon so great a 
subject as that of religion ; and mistrusting that dangerous 
facility given by active jaws and a hot imagination. Reverend 
divines have adopted this habit, and keep us for an hour lis- 
tening to what might well be told in ten minutes. They are 
wondrously fluent, considering all things ; and though I have 
heard man}^ a sentence begun whereof the speaker did not evi- 
dently know the conclusion, yet, somehow or other, he has 
always managed to get through the paragraph without any 
hiatus, except perhaps in the sense. And as far as I can re- 
mark, it is not calm, plain, downright preachers who preserve 
the extemporaneous system for the most part, but pompous 
orators, indulging in all the cheap graces of rhetoric — exag- 
gerating words and feelings to make effect, and dealing in pious 
caricature. Church-goers become excited by this loud talk and 
captivating manner, and can't go back afterwards to a sober 
discourse read out of a grave old sermon-book, appealing to the 
reason and the gentle feelings, instead of to the passions and 
tlie imagination. Beware of too much talk, O parsons ! If a 
man is to give an account of every idle word he utters, for what 
a number of such loud nothings, windy emphatic tropes and 
metaphors, spoken, not for God's glory, but the preacher's, will 
man3' a cushion-thumper have to answer ! And this rebuke 
may properly find a place here, because the clergyman by whose 
discourse it was elicited is not of the eloquent dramatic sort, 
bat a gentleman, it is said, remarkable for old-fashioned learn- 
ing and quiet habits, that do not seem to be to the taste of the 
many boisterous young clergy of the present day. 

The Catholic chapel was built before their graces the most 
reverend lord archbishops came into fashion. It is large and 
gloomy, with one or two attempts at ornament b}" way of pic- 
tures at the altars, and a good inscription warning the in-comer, 
in a few bold words, of the sacredness of the place he stands in. 
Bare feet bore away thousands of people who came to pray 



200 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

there : there were numbers of smart equipages for the richet 
Protestant congregation. Strolling about the town in the balmy 
summer evening, I heard the sweet tones of a hymn from the 
people in the Presbyterian pra3'ing-house. Indeed, the country 
is full of piet}^, and a warm, sincere, undoubting devotion. 

On week-daj^s the street before the chapel is scarcely less 
crowded than on the Sabbath : but it is with women and children 
merely ; for a stream bordered with lime-trees runs pleasantly 
down the street, and hither come innumerable girls to wash, 
white the children make dirt-pies and look on. Wilkie was here 
some 3^ears since, and the place affords a great deal of amuse- 
ment to the painter of character. Sketching, tant bien que mal, 
the bridge and the trees, and some of the nymphs engaged in the 
stream, the writer became an object of no small attention ; and 
at least a score of dirty brats left their dirt-pies to look on, the 
barelegged washing-girls grinning from the water. 

One, a regular rustic beauty, whose face and figure would 
have made the fortune of a frontispiece, seemed particularly 
amused and aga^ante ; and I walked round to get a drawing of 
her fresh jolly face : but directly I came near she pulled her 
gown over her head, and resolutel}^ turned round her back ; 
and, as that part of her person did not seem to differ in char- 
acter from the backs of the rest of Europe, there is no need 
of taking its likeness. 



CHAPTER XXL 

THE PATTERN AT CROAGHPATRICK . 

On the Pattern day, however, the washerwomen and children 
had all disappeared — nay, the stream, too, seemed to be gone 
out of town. There was a report current, also, that on the 
occasion of the Pattern, six hundred teetotalers had sworn to 
revolt ; and I fear that it was the hope of witnessing this awful 
rebeUion which induced me to sta}" a couple of da^'s at West- 
port. The Pattern was commenced on the Sunday, and the 
priests going up to the mountain took care that there should be 
no sports nor dancing on that da}' ; but that the people should 
only content themselves with the performance of what are called 
religious duties. Religious duties ! Heaven help us ! If these 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 201 

reverend gentlemen were worshippers of Moloch or Baal, or 
an}^ deit}'^ whose honor demanded bloodshed, and savage rites, 
and degradation, and torture, one might fancy them encour- 
aging the people to the disgusting penances the poor things 
here perform. But it's too hard to think that in our days anj- 
priests of any religion should be found superintending such a 
hideous series of self-sacrifices as are, it appears, performed on 
this hill. 

A friend who ascended the hill brought down the following 
account of it. The ascent is a very steep and hard one, he 
says ; but it was performed in company of thousands of people 
who were making their way barefoot to the several " stations " 
upon the hill. 

"The first station consists of one heap of stones, round 
which they must walk seven times, casting a stone on the heap 
each time, and before and after every stone's throw saying 
u prayer. 

" The second station is on the top of the mountain. Here 
there is a great altar — a shapeless heap of stones. The poor 
wretches crawl on their knees into this place, say fifteen prayers, 
and after going round the entire top of the mountain fifteen 
times, say fifteen pra3'ers again. 

' ' The third station is near the bottom of the mountain at 
the further side from Westport. It consists of three heaps. 
The penitents must go seven times round these collectively, and 
seven times afterwards round each individually, saying a prayer 
before and after each progress." 

My informant describes the people as coming away from 
this " frightful exhibition suffering severe pain, wounded and 
bleeding in the knees and feet, and some of the women shriek- 
ing with the pain of their wounds." Fancy thousands of these 
bent upon their work, and priests standing by to encourage 
them! — For shame, for shame. If all the popes, cardinals, 
bishops, hermits, priests, and deacons that ever lived were to 
come forward and preach this as a truth — that to please God 
you must macerate your bod}^, that the sight of your agonies 
is welcome to Him, and that your blood, groans, and degrada- 
tion find favor in His eyes, I would not believe them. Better 
have over a company of Fakeers at once, and set the Suttee 
going. 

Of these tortures, however, I had not the fortune to witness 
a sight : for going towards the mountain for the first four miles, 
the only conveyance I could find was half the pony of an honest 
Bailor, who said, when applied to, "I tell you what I do wid 



202 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

3'ou : I give j^ou a spell about." But, as it turned out we were 
going different wa3^s, this help was but a small one. A car 
with a spare seat, however, (there were hundreds of others 
quite full, and scores of rattling country-carts covered with 
people, and thousands of bare legs trudging along the road,) — 
a car with a spare seat passed by at two miles from the Pat- 
tern, and that just in time to get comfortabl}^ wet through on 
arriving there. The whole mountain was enveloped in mist ; 
and we could nowhere see thirty yards before us. The women 
walked forward, with their gowns over their heads ; the men 
sauntered on in the rain, with the utmost indifference to it. 
The car presentl}' came to a cottage, the court in front of which 
was black with two hundred horses, and where as many drivers 
were jangling and bawhng ; and here we were told to descend. 
You had to go over a wall and across a brook, and behold 
the Pattern. 

The pleasures of the poor people — for after the business on 
the mountain came the dancing and love-making at its foot — 
were wofull}^ spoiled by the rain, which rendered dancing on 
the grass impossible ; nor were the tents big enough for that 
exercise. Indeed, the whole sight was as dismal and half-sav- 
age a one as I have seen. There ma}^ have been fifty of these 
tents squatted round a plain of the most brilliant green grass, 
behind which the mist-curtains seemed to rise immediately ; 
for 3^ou could not even see the mountain-side beyond them. 
Here was a great crowd of men and women, all ugly, as the 
fortune of the da}^ would have it (for the sagacious reader has, 
no doubt, remarked that there are ugly and prett}^ days in life) . 
Stalls were spread about, whereof the owners were shrieking 
out the praises of their wares — great coarse damp-looking 
bannocks of bread for the most part, or, mayhap, a dirty col- 
lection of pigsfeet and such refreshments. Several of the 
booths professed to belong to "confectioners" from Westport 
or Castlebar, the confectionery consisting of huge biscuits and 
doubtful-looking ginger-beer — ginger-ale or gingeretta it is 
called in this country, by a fanciful people who love the finest 
titles. Add to these, caldrons containing water for "tay" at 
the doors of the booths, other pots full of masses of pale legs 
of mutton (the owner "prodding," ever}^ now and then, for a 
bit, and holding it up and asking the passenger to buy) . In 
the booths it was impossible to stand upright, or to see much, 
on account of smoke. Men and women were crowded in these 
rude tents, huddled together, and disappearing in the darkness. 
Owners came bustling out to replenish the empty water-jugs : 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 



203 



and landladies stood outside in the rain calling strenuously 
upon all passers-b}^ to enter. Here is a design taken from one 
of the booths, presenting ingeniously an outside and an inside 
view of the same place — an artifice seldom practised iu 
pictures. 




Meanwhile, high up on the invisible mountain, the people 
were dragging their bleeding knees from altar to altar, flinging 
stones, and muttering some endless litanies, with the priests 
standing by. I think I was not sorry that the rain, and the 
care of my precious health, prevented me from mounting a 
severe hill to witness a sight that could onl}' have caused one 
to be shocked and ashamed that servants of God should en- 
courage it. The road home was very pleasant ; everj'body 
was wet through, but everybod}' was happ}-, and b}- some mira- 
cle we were seven on the car. There was the honest English- 
man in the military cap, who sang '• The sea, the hopen sea's 
my 'ome," although not any one of the compan}' called upon 
him for that air. Then the music was taken up by a good- 
natured lass from Castlebar ; then the Englishman again, " AYitli 
burnished brand and musketoon ; " and there was no end of 
pushing, pinching, squeezing, and laughing. The Englishman, 
especiall}', had a favorite 3'ell, with which he saluted and aston- 
ished all cottagers, passengers, cars, that we met or overtook. 
Presently came prancing by two dandies, who were especially 
frightened by the noise. " Thim's two tailors from Westport," 
said the carman, grinning with all his might. '' Come, gat out 



204 THE IRISH SKETCH ^OOK. 

of the way there, gat along ! " piped a small English voice from 
above somewhere. I looked up, and saw a little creature 
perched on the top of a tandem, which he was driving with the 
most knowing air — a dreadful young hero, with a white hat, 
and a white face, and a blue bird's-e3'e neck-cloth. He was five 
feet high, if an inch, an ensign, and sixteen ; and it was a 
great comfort to think, in case of danger or riot, that one of 
his 3'ears and personal strength was at hand to give help. 

" Thim's the afficers," said the carman, as the tandem 
wheeled b}^, a small groom quivering on behind — and the car- 
man spoke with the greatest respect this time. Two days 
before, on arriving at Westport, I had seen the same equipage 
at the door of the inn — where for a moment there happened 
to be no waiter to receive me. So, shouldering a carpet-bag, 
I walked into the inn-hall, and asked a gentleman standing 
there where was the coffee-room ? It was the military tandem- 
driving youth, who with much grace looked up in my face, and 
said calmly, " I dawnt knawT I believe the little creature had 
just been dining in the very room — and so present my best 
compliments to him. 

The Guide-book will inform the traveller of man}^ a beautiful 
spot which lies in the neighborhood of Westport, and which I 
had not the time to visit ; but I must not take leave of the 
excellent little inn without speaking once more of its extreme 
comfort ; nor of the place itself, without another parting word 
regarding its beaut}^ It forms an event in one's life to have 
seen that place, so beautiful is it, and so unlike all other 
beauties that I know of. Were such beauties tying upon Eng- 
lish shores it would be a world's wonder : perhaps, if it were 
on the Mediterranean, or the Baltic, English travellers would 
flock to it b}^ hundreds ; why not come and see it in Ireland ! 
Remote as the spot is, Westport is onty two days' journey 
from London now, and lies in a countr}- far more strange to 
most travellers than France or Germany can be. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 205 

CHAPTER XXII. 

FROM WESTPORT TO BALLINASLOE. 

The mail-coach took us next da}^ by Castlebar and Tiiam 
to Ballinasloe, a journey of near eighty miles. The country 
is interspersed with innumerable seats belonging to the Blakes, 
the Browns, and the Ljmches ; and we passed many large 
domains belonging to bankrupt lords and fugitive squires, with 
fine lodges adorned with moss and battered windows, and 
parks where, if the grass was growing on the roads, on the 
other hand the trees had been weeded out of the grass. About 
these seats and their owners the guard — an honest, shrewd 
fellow — had all the gossip to tell. The jolly guard himself 
was a ruin, it turned out : he told me his grandfather was a 
man of large property ; his father, he said, kept a pack of 
hounds, and had spent everything by the time he, the guard, 
was sixteen : so the lad made interest to get a mail-car to 
drive, whence he had been promoted to the guard's seat, and 
now for forty 3^ears had occupied it, travelling eighty miles, and 
earning seven-and-twopence ever}^ day of his life. He had 
been once ill, he said, for three da3^s ; and if a man may b6 
judged by ten hours' talk with him, there were few more 
shrewd, resolute, simple-minded men to be found on the out- 
side of any coaches or the inside of anj'- houses in Ireland. 

During the first five-and-twenty miles of the journe}^, — for 
the day was very sunny and bright, — Croaghpatrick kept us 
compan}' ; and, seated with your back to the horses, 3'ou could 
see, "on the left, that vast aggregation of mountains which 
stretches southwards to the Bay of Galwa}^ ; on the right, that 
gigantic assemblage which sweeps in circular outline northward 
to Killule." Somewhere amongst those hills the great John 
Tuam was born, whose mansion and cathedral are to be seen 
in Tuam town, but whose fame is spread everywhere. To 
arrive at Castlebar, we go over the undulatiug valle}^ which lies 
between the mountain of Joyce countr}- and Erris ; and the 
first object which you see on entering the town is a stately 
Gothic castle that stands at a short distance from it. 

On the gate of the stately Gothic castle was written an 
inscription not ver}^ hospitable: "without beware, within 
AMEND ; " just beneath which is an iron crane of neat construe- 



206 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

tion. The castle is the count}^ gaol, and the iron crane is the 
gallows of the district. The town seems neat and lively : there 
is a fine church, a grand barracks (celebrated as the residence 
of the 3^ouDg fellow with the bird's-e3'e neck-cloth), a club, and 
a Whig and Tory newspaper. The road hence to Tuam is ver}^ 
pretty and livel}", from the number of country seats along the 
way, giving comfortable shelter to more Blakes, Browns, and 
Lynches. 

In the cottages, the inhabitants looked healthy and rosy in 
their rags, and the cots themselves in the sunshine almost com- 
fortable. After a couple of months in the country, the stran- 
ger's eye grows somewhat accustomed to the rags : they do not 
frighten him as at first ; the people who wear them look for the 
most part healthy enough : especially the small children — those 
who can scarcely totter, and are sitting shading their e3^es at 
the door, and leaving the unfinished dirt- pie to shout as the 
coach passes bj^ — are as healthy a looking race as one will 
often see. Nor can an}' one pass through the land without 
being touched b}' the extreme love of children among the peo- 
ple : the}' swarm everywhere, and the whole country rings with 
cries of affection towards the children, with the songs of 
young ragged nurses dandling babies on their knees, and warn- 
ings of mothers to Patse}^ to come out of the mud, or Nore}' to 
get off the pig's back. 

At Tuam the coach stopped exactl}' for fourteen minutes and 
a half, during which time those who wished might dine : but 
instead, I had the pleasure of inspecting a very mouldy, dirty 
town, and made m}' way to the Catholic cathedral — a ver}- 
handsome edifice indeed ; .handsome without and within, and 
of the Gothic sort. Over the door is a huge coat of •arms sur- 
mounted by a cardinal's hat — the arms of the see, no doubt, 
quartered with John Tuam's own patrimonial coat ; and that 
was a frieze coat, from all accounts, passably ragged at the 
elbows. Well, he must be a poor wag who could sneer at an 
old coat, because it was old and poor ; but if a man changes 
it for a tawdry gimcrack suit bedizened with twopenny tinsel, 
and struts about calling himself his grace and m}^ lord, when 
may we laugh if not then ? There is something simple in the 
way in which these good people belord their clerg3'men, and 
respect titles real or sham. Take any Dublin paper, — a 
couple of columns of it are sure to be filled with movements 
of the small great men of the world. Accounts from Derr}^- 
nane state that the "Right Honorable the Lord Maj'or is in 
good health — his lordship went out with his beagles 3^ester- 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 207 

day ;" or " his Grace the Most Reverend the Lord Archbishop 
of Bally whack, assisted by the Right Reverend the Lord 
Bishops of Trincomalee and Hippopotamus, assisted," &c. ; 
or " Colonel Tims, of Castle Tims, and lad}^ have quitted the 
' Shelburne Hotel,' with a party for Kilball3^bathershins, where 
the august* party propose to enjoy a few da3's' shrimp-fish- 
ing," — and so on. Our people are not witty and keen of per- 
ceiving the ridiculous, like the Irish ; but the bluntness and 
honest}' of the English have wellnigh kicked the fashionable 
humbug down ; and except perhaps among footmen and about 
Baker Street, this curiosity about the aristocracy is wearing 
fast away. Have the Irish so much reason to respect their 
lords that the}^ should so chronicle all their movements ; and 
not only admire real lords, but make sham ones of their own 
to admire them ? 

There is no object of special mark upon the road from Tuam 
to Ballinasloe — the country being flat for the most part, and 
the noble Galway and Mayo mountains having disappeared at 
length — until you come to a glimpse of Old England in the 
pretty village of Ahascragh. An old oak-tree grows in the 
neat street, the houses are as trim and white as eye can desire, 
and about the church and the town are handsome plantations, 
forming on the whole such a picture of comfort and plent}^ as 
is rarely to be seen in the part of Ireland I have traversed. 
All these wonders have been wrought by the activity of an 
excellent resident agent. There was a countryman on the 
coach deploring that, through family circumstances, this gen- 
tleman should have been dispossessed of his agency, and declar- 
ing that the village had already begun to deteriorate in conse- 
quence. The marks of such decay were not, however, visible 
— at least to a new comer ; and, being reminded of it, I in- 
dulged in many patriotic longings for England : as every Eng- 
lishman does when he is travelling out of the country which he 
is always so willing to quit. 

That a place should instantly begin to deteriorate because 
a certain individual was removed from it — that cottagers 
should become thriftless, and houses dirty, and house-windows 
cracked, — all these are points which public economists may 
ruminate over, and can't fail to give the carelessest traveller 
much matter for painful reflection. How is it that the presence 
of one man more or less should affect a set of people come to 
years of manhood, and knowing that they have their duty to 

* This epithet is applied to the party of a Colonel somebody, in a 
Dublin paper. 



208 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

do ? Why should a man at Ahascragh let his home go to ruin, 
and stuff his windows with ragged breeches instead of glass, 
because Mr, Smith is agent in place of Mr. Jones? Is he a 
child that won't work unless the schoolmaster be at hand ? or 
are we to suppose with the " Repealers," that the cause of all 
this degradation and miser3^ is the intolerable tj^ranny of the 
sister country, and the pain which poor Ireland has been made to 
endure? This is ver}^ well at the Corn Exchange, and among 
patriots after dinner ; but, after all granting the grievance of 
the franchise (though it may not be unfair to presume that a man 
who has not strength of mind enough to mend his own breeches 
or his own windows will always be the tool of one part}' or 
another) , there is no Inquisition set up in the country : the 
law tries to defend the people as much as they wiU allow ; the 
odious tithe has even been whisked off from their shoulders to 
the landlords' ; they ma}' live pretty much as the}^ like. Is it 
not too monstrous to howl about English tyranny and suflfering 
Ireland, and call for a Stephen's Green Parliament to make 
the country quiet and the people industrious ? The people are 
not politicall}^ worse treated than their neighbors in England. 
The priests and landlords, if they chose to co-operate, might 
do more for the country now than any kings or laws could. 
What you want here is not a Catholic or Protestant party, but 
an Irish party. 

In the midst of these reflections, and by what the reader 
will doubtless think a blessed interruption, we came in sight of 
the town of Ballinasloe and its " gash lamps," which a fellow- 
passenger did not fail to point out with admiration. The road- 
menders, however, did not appear to think that light was by 
any means necessary ; for, having been occupied, in the morn- 
ing, in digging a fine hole upon the highwa}", previous to some 
alterations to be effected there, they had left their work at sun- 
down, without any lamp to warn coming travellers of the hole 
— which we only escaped b}' a wonder. The papers have much 
such another stor3^ In the Galwaj^ and Ballinasloe coach a 
horse on the road suddenly fell down and died ; the coachman 
drove his coach unicorn-fashion into town ; and, as for the dead 
horse, of course he left it on the road, at the place where it fell, 
and where another coach coming up was upset over it, bones 
broken, passengers maimed, coach smashed. By heavens ! the 
tyranny of England is unendurable ; and I have no doubt it 
had a hand in upsetting that coach. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 209 

CHAPTER XXm. 

BALLINASLOE TO DUBLIN. 

During the cattle-fair the celebrated town of Ballinasloe is 
thronged with farmers from all parts of the kingdom — the 
cattle being pictiiresquel}^ exhibited in the park of the noble 
proprietor of the town, Lord Clancarty. As it was not fair- 
time the town did not seem particularl}^ busy, nor was there 
much to remark in it, except a church, and a magnificent 
lunatic asylum, that lies outside the town on the Dubhn road, 
and is as handsome and stateh^ as a palace. I think the beggars 
were more plenteous and more loathsome here than almost any- 
where. To one hideous wretch I was obliged to give money to 
go away, which he did for a moment, onl}- to obtrude his horrible 
face directly afterwards half eaten away with disease. "A 
penny for the sake of poor little Mery," said another woman, 
who had a baby sleeping on her withered breast ; and how can 
any one who has a little Mery at home resist such an appeal? 
"Pity the poor bhnd man!" roared a respectably dressed 
grenadier of a fellow. I told him to go to the gentleman with 
a red neck-cloth and fur cap (a young buck from Trinity College) 
— to whom the blind man with much simplicity immediately 
stepped over ; and as for the rest of the beggars, what pen or 
pencil could describe their hideous leering flatter}^, their cring- 
ing, swindling humor ! 

The inn, like the town, being made to accommodate the 
periodical crowds of visitors who attended the fair, presented 
in their absence rather a faded and desolate look ; and in spite 
of the live-stock for which the place is famous, the onh' portion 
of their produce which I could get to my share, after twelve 
hours' fasting and an hour's bell-ringing and scolding, was one 
very lean mutton-chop and one very small damp kidne}', brought 
in b}" an old tottering waiter to a table spread in a huge black 
coffee-room, dimly lighted by one little jet of gas. 

As this only served very faintly to light up the above ban- 
quet, the waiter, upon remonstrance, proceeded to light the 
other bee ; but the lamp was sulky, and upon this attempt to 
force it, as it were, refused to act altogether, and went out. 
The big room was then accommodated with a couple of yellow 
mutton-candles. There was a neat, handsome, correct young 



210 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

English oflScer warming his slippers at the fire, and opposite 
him sat a worthy gentleman, with a glass of "mingled mate- 
rials," discoursing to him in a very friendly and confidential 
way. 

As I don't know the gentleman's name, and as it is not at 
all improbable, from the situation in which he was, that he has 
quite forgotten the night's conversation, I hope there will be 
no breach of confidence in recalling some part of it. The 
speaker was dressed in deep black — worn, however, with that 
degage air peculiar to the votaries of Bacchus, or that nameless 
god, offspring of Bacchus and Ceres, who may have invented 
the noble liquor called whiskey. It was fine to see the easy 
folds in which his neck-cloth confined a shirt-collar moist with 
the generous drops that trickled from the chin above, — its 
little percentage upon the punch. There was a fine dashing 
black satin waistcoat that called for its share, and generousl}^ 
disdained to be buttoned. I think this is the only specimen I 
have seen 3'et of the personage still so frequently described in 
the Irish novels — the careless drinking squire — the Irish Will 
Whimble. 

" Sir," says he, "as I was telling you before this gentleman 
came in (from Westport, I preshume, sir, by the mail? and my 
service to you!), the butchers in Tchume (Tuam) — where I 
live, and shall be happ}^ to see you and give you a shakedown, 
a cut of mutton, and the use of as good a brace of pointers as 
ever 3'ou shot over — the butchers sa}^ to me, whenever I look 
in at their shops and ask for a joint of meat — the}^ say : ' Take 
down that quarther o' mutton, hoy ; it's no use weighing it for 
Mr. Bodkin. He can tell with an eye what's the weight of it 
to an ounce ! ' And so, sir, I can ; and I'd make a bet to go 
into any market in Dubhn, Tchume, Ballinasloe, where you 
please, and just by looking at the meat decide its weight." 

At the pause, during which the gentleman here designated 
Bodkin drank off" his " materials," the young officer said gravely 
that this was a very rare and valuable accomplishment, and 
thanked him for the invitation to Tchume. 

The honest gentleman proceeded with his personal memoirs ; 
and (with a charming modesty that authenticated his tale, 
while it interested his hearers for the teller) he called for a fresh 
tumbler, and began discoursing about horses. " Them I don't 
know," sa3^s he, confessing the fact at once ; "or, if I do, I've 
been always so unlucky with them that it's as good as if I 
didn't. 

" To give you an idea of my ill-fortune : Me brother-'n-law 



THE IlilSH SKETCH BOOK. 211 

Burke once sent me three colts of his to sell at this very fair of 
BciUinasloe, and for all I could do I could only get a bid for 
one of 'em, and sold lier for sixteen pounds. And d'3'e know 
what that mare was, sir? " ssijs Mr. Bodkin, giving a thump that 
made the spoon jump out of the punch-glass for fright. " D'ye 
know who she was ? she was Water- Wagtail, sir, — Water- 
Wagtail ! She won fourteen cups and plates in Ireland before 
she went to Liverpool ; and you know what she did there ? " 
(We said, " O ! of course.") " Well, sir, the man who bought 
her from me sold her for four hunder' guineas ; and in England 
she fetched eight hunder' pounds. 

"Another of them very horses, gentlemen (Tim, some hot 
wather — screeching hot, you divil — and a sthroke of the 
limin) — another of them horses that I was refused fifteen 
pound for, me brother-in-law sould to Sir Rufford Buiford for 
a hunder'-and-fifty guineas. Wasn't that luck? 

" Well, sir. Sir Rafford gives Burke his bill at six months, 
and don't pay it when it come jue. A prett}^ pickle Tom Burke 
was in, as I leave ye to fauc}', for he'd paid away the bill, which 
he thought as good as goold ; and sure it ought to be, for Sir 
Riiflford had come of age since the bill was drawn, and before 
it was due, and, as I needn't tell you, had slipped into a very 
handsome property. 

" On the protest of the bill, Burke goes in a fury to Gresham's 
in Sackville Street, where the baronet was living, and (would 
ye believe it?) the latter says he doesn't intend to meet the bill, 
on the score that he was a minor when he gave it. On which 
Burke was in such a rage that he took a horsewhip and vowed 
he'd beat the baronet to a jelly, and post him in every club in 
Dublin, and publish every circumstance of the transaction." 

" It does seem rather a queer one," says one of Mr. Bodkin's 
hearers. 

" Queer indeed : but that's not it, 3^ou see ; for Sir Rufford 
is as honorable a man as ever lived ; and after this quarrel he 
paid Burke his mone}^, and they've been warm friends ever 
since. But what I want to show ye is our infernal luck. TTiree 
months before, Sir Rufford had sold that very horse for three 
hunder' guineas.^' 

The worthy gentleman had just ordered in a fresh tumbler 
of his favorite liquor, when we wished him good-night, and 
slept by no means the worse, because the bedroom candle was 
carried by one of the prettiest young chambermaids possible. 

Next morning, surrounded by a crowd of beggars more 
filthy, hideous, and importunate than any I think in the most 



212 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

favored towns of the south, we set off, a coach-load, for Dublin. 
A clergyman, a guard, a Scotch farmer, a butcher, a book- 
seller's hack, a lad bound for Maynooth and another for Trinity, 
made a varied, pleasant party enough, where each, according 
to his lights, had something to say. 

1 have seldom seen a more dismal and uninteresting road 
than that which we now took, and which brought us through 
the "old, inconvenient, ill-built, and ugly town of Athlone." 
The painter would find here, however, some good subjects for 
his sketch-book, in spite of the commination of the Guide- 
book. Here, too, great improvements are taking place for the 
Shannon navigation, which will render the town not so incon- 
venient as at present it is stated to be ; and hard b}^ lies a little 
village that is known and loved by all the world where English 
is spoken. It is called Lishoy, but its real name is Auburn, 
and it gave birth to one Noll Goldsmith, whom Mr. Boswell 
was in the habit of despising very heartily. At the Quaker 
town of Moate, the butcher and the farmer dropped off, the 
clergyman went inside, and their places were filled by four 
Maj^noothians, whose vacation was just at an end. One of 
tliem, a freshman, was inside the coach with the clergyman, 
and told him, with rather a long face, of the dismal discipline 
of his college. They are not allowed to quit the gates (except 
on general walks) ; they are expelled if they read a newspaper ; 
and they begin term with "a retreat" of a week, which time 
the)' are made to devote to silence, and, as it is supposed, to 
devotion and meditation. 

I must say the young fellows drank plenty of whiske}^ on the 
road, to prepare them for their year's abstinence ; and, when at 
length arrived in the miserable village of Maynooth, determined 
not to go into college that night, but to devote the evening to a 
" lark." They were simple, kind-hearted 3'oung men, sons of 
farmers or tradesmen seemingly ; and, as is alwa3^s the case 
here, except among some of the gentry, ver3' gentlemanlike and 
pleasing in manners.' Their talk was of this companion and 
that ; how one was in rhetoric, and another in logic, and a third 
had got his curacy. Wait for a while ; and with the happy 
system pursued within the walls of their college, those smiling, 
good-humored faces will come out with a scowl, and downcast 
eyes that seem afraid to look the world in the face. When the 
time comes for them to take leave of yonder dismal-looking 
barracks, they will be men no longer, but bound over to the 
church, body and soul : their free thoughts chained down and 
kept in darkness, their honest affections mutilated. Well, I 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 213 

hope they will be happy to-night at any rate, and talk and laugh 
to their hearts' content. The poor freshman, whose big chest 
is carried off by the porter yonder to the inn, has but twelve 
hours more of heart}', natural, human life. To-morrow, they 
will begin their work upon him ; cramping his mind, and biting 
his tongue, and firing and cutting at his heart, — breaking him 
to pull the church chariot. Ah ! why didn't he stop at home, 
and dig potatoes and get children? 

Part of the drive from Maynooth to Dublin is exceedingly 
pretty : you ate carried through Leixlip, Lucan, Chapelizod, and 
by scores of parks and villas, until the gas-lamps come in sight. 
Was there ever a cockney that was not glad to see them ; and 
did not prefer the sight of them, in his heart, to the best lake 
or mountain ever invented? Pat the waiter comes jumping 
down to the car and says, " Welcome back, sir! " and bustles 
the trunk into the queer little bedroom, with all the cordial 
hospitahty imaginable. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

TV^O DAYS IN WICKLOW. 

The little tour we have juslfbeen taking has been performed, 
not only by myriads of the " car-drivingest, tay-drinkingest, 
say-bathingest people in the world," the inhabitants of the city 
of Dublin, but also by all the tourists who have come to dis- 
cover this countr}^ for the benefit of the English nation. " Look 
here ! " says the ragged, bearded genius of a guide at the Seven 
Churches. " This is the spot which Mr. Henry Inglis particu- 
larly admired, and said it was exactly like Norway. Many's 
the song I've heard Mr. Sam Lover sing here — a pleasant 
gentleman entirely. Have you seen my picture that's taken oft 
in Mrs. Hall's book? All the strangers know me by it, though 
it makes me much cleverer than I am." Similar tales has he 
of Mr. Barrow, and the Transatlantic Willis, and of Crofton 
Croker, who has been everywhere. 

The guide's remarks concerning the works of these gentle- 
men inspired me, I must confess, with considerable disgust and 
jealous}'. A plague take them ! what remains for me to dis- 
cover after the gallant adventurers in the service of Paternoster 
How have examined every rock, lake, and ruin of the district, 



214 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

exhausted it of all its legends, and "invented new " most likely, 
as their daring genius prompted ? Hence it follows that the de- 
scription of the two days' jaunt must of necessity be short ; lest 
persons who have read former accounts should be led to refer to 
the same, and make comparisons which might possiblj^ be un- 
favorable to the present humble pages. 

Is there anything new to be said regarding the journey ? In 
the first place, there's the railroad : it's no longer than the rail- 
road to Greenwich, to be sure, and almost as well known ; but 
has it been done ? that's the question ; or has anybody dis- 
covered the dandies on the railroad? 

After wondering at the beggars and carmen of Dublin, the 
stranger can't help admiring another vast and numerous class 
of inhabitants of the city — namelj^ the dandies. Such a 
number of smartlj'-dressed young fellows I don't think any town 
possesses : no, not Paris, where the 3'oung shopmen, with spurs 
and sta3's, ma}' be remarked strutting abroad on fete-da3's ; nor 
London, where on Sunday's, in the Park, 3'ou see thousands of 
this cheap kind of aristocracy parading ; nor Liverpool, famous 
for the breed of commercial dandies, desk and counter D'0rsa3'S 
and cotton and sugar-barrel Brummels, and whom one remarks 
pushing on to business with a brisk determined air. All the 
above races are only to be encountered on holida3's, except by 
those persons whose affairs take them to shops, docks, or count- 
ing-houses, where these fascinating 3'oung fellows labor during 
the week. * 

But the Dublin breed of dandies is quite distinct from those 
of the various cities above named, and altogether superior : for 
the3' appear every day, and all da3' long, not once a week 
merely, and have an original and splendid character and ap- 
pearance of their own, ver3' hard to describe, though no doubt 
every traveller, as well as m3'self, has admired and observed it. 
The}' assume a sort of militar3'' and ferocious look, not observ- 
able in other cheap dandies, except in Paris perhaps now and 
then ; and are to l3e remarked not so much for the splendor 
of their ornaments as for the profusion of them. Thus, for 
instance, a hat which is worn straight over the two eyes costs 
ver3^ likely more than one which hangs upon one ear ; a great 
oily bush of hair to balance the hat (otherwise the head no 
doubt would fall hopelessly on one side) is ev^en more economi- 
cal than a crop which requires the barber's scissors oft-times ; 
also a tuft on the chin ma3^ be had at a small expense of bear's- 
grease by persons of a proper age ; and although big pins are 
the fashion, I am bound to say I have never seen so many or 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 215 

so big as here. Large agate marbles or " taws," globes terres- 
trial and celestial, pawnbrokers' balls, — I cannot find com- 
parisons large enough for these wonderful ornaments of the 
person. Canes also should be mentioned, which are sold verj" 
splendid, with gold or silver heads, for a shilling on the Quays ; 
and the dandy not uncommonly finishes off with a horn quizzing- 
glass, which being stuck in one e3'e contracts the brows and 
gives a fierce determined look to the whole countenance. 

In idleness at least these 3'Oung men can compete with the 
greatest lords ; and the wonder is, how the cit}^ can support so 
many of them, or they themselves ; how they manage to spend 
their time : who gives them money to ride hacks in the " Pha}'- 
nix " on field and race dsLjs ; to have boats at Kingstown 
during the summer ; and to be crowding the railwaj'-coaches 
all the day long? Cars go whirling about all day, bearing 
squads of them. You see them sauntering at all the railway- 
stations in vast numbers, and jumping out of the carriages as 
the trains come up, and greeting other dandies with that rich 
large brogue which some actor ought to make known to the 
English pubUc : it being the biggest, richest, and coarsest of 
all the brogues of Ireland. 

I think these dandies are the chief objects which arrest the 
stranger's attention as he travels on the Kingstown railroad, 
and I have alwa3^s been so much occupied in watching and 
wondering at them as scarcely to have leisure to look at any- 
thing else during the pretty little ride of twent}' minutes so 
beloved by ever}- Dublin cockne3^ The waters of the baj- wash 
in man}' places the piers on which the railway is built, and you 
see the calm stretch of water be^'ond, and the big purple hill of 
Howth, and the light-houses, and the jetties, and the shipping. 
Yesterday was a boat-race, (I don't know how many scores of 
such take place during the season,) and you may be sure there 
were tens of thousands of the dandies to look on. There had 
been boat-races the two da3^s previous : before that, had been 
a field-day — before that, three days of garrison races — to- 
day, to-morrow, and the da}^ after, there are races at Howth. 
There seems some sameness in the sports, but everybody goes ; 
everybody is never tired ; and then, I suppose, comes the 
punch-party, and the song in the evening — the same old 
pleasures, and the same old songs the next da\^, and so on 
to the end. As for the boat-race, I saw two little boats in the 
distance tugging away for dear life — the beach and piers 
swarming with spectators, the bay full of small yachts and 
innumerable row-boats, and in the midst of the assemblage a 



216 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

convict-ship Ijing read}' for sail, with a black mass of poor 
wretches on her deck — who, too, were eager for pleasure. 

Who is not, in this countiy? Walking awa}^ from the pier 
and King George's column, you arrive upon rows after rows of 
pleasure-houses, whither all Dublin flocks during the summer- 
time — for ever}^ one must have his sea-bathing ; and the}^ sa}^ 
that the country houses to the west of the town are empty, or 
to be had for very small prices, while for those on the coast, 
especially towards Kingstown, there is the readiest sale at 
large prices. I have paid frequent visits to one, of which the 
rent is as great as that of a tolerable London house ; and there 
seem to be others suited to all purses : for instance, there are 
long lines of two-roomed houses, stretching far back and away 
from the sea, accommodating, doubtless, small commercial men, 
or small families, or some of those travelhng dandies we have 
just been talking about, and whose costume is so cheap and so 
splendid. 

A two-horse car, which will accommodate twelve, or will 
condescend to receive twenty passengers, starts from the rail- 
wa}' -station for Bra}^ running along the coast for the chief part 
of the journe}^, though 3'ou have but few Adews of the sea, on 
account of intervening woods and hills. The whole of this 
country is covered with handsome villas and their gardens, and 
pleasure-grounds. There are round many of the houses parks 
of some extent, and always of considerable beauty, aniong the 
trees of which the road winds. New churches are likewise to 
be seen in various places ; built like the poor-houses, that are 
likewise everywhere springing up, pretty much upon one plan 
— a sort of bastard or Vauxhall Gothic — resembling no archi- 
tecture of any age previous to that when Horace Walpole in- 
vented the Castle of Otranto and the other monstrosity^ upon 
Strawberr}^ Hill : though it must be confessed that those on 
the Bray line are by no means so imaginative. Well, what 
matters, say 3^ou, that the churches be ugl}^, if the truth is 
preached within ? Is it not fair, however, to say that Beaut}^ 
is the truth too, of its kind ? and wh}^ should it not be culti- 
vated as well as other truth ? Why build these hideous barbaric 
temples, when at the expense of a little study and taste beau- 
tiful structures might be raised? 

After leaving Bray, with its pleasant bp.y, and pleasant 
river, and pleasant inn, the little Wicklow tour ma}^ be said 
to commence properly ; and, as that romantic and beautiful 
countr}^ has been described man}^ times in familiar terms, 
our only chance is to speak thereof in romantic and beau- 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 21? 

tiful language Such as no other writer can possibly have 
employed. 

We rang at the gate of the steward's lodge and said, 
" Grant us a pass, we pra}^, to see the parks of Powerscourt, 
and to behold the brown deer upon the grass, and the cool 
shadows under tlie whispering trees." 

But the steward's son answered, "You may not see the 
parks of Powerscourt, for the lord of the castle comes home, 
and we expect him daily." So, wondering at this reply, but 
not understanding the same, we took leave of the son of the 
steward and said, "No doubt Powerscourt is not fit to see. 
Have we not seen parks in England, my brother, and shall 
we break our hearts that this Irish one hath its gates closed 
tons? ' 

Then the car-boy said, "My lords, the park is shut, but 
the waterfall runs for ever}^ man ; will it please j^ou to see the 
waterfall?" "Boy," we replied, " we have seen many water- 
falls ; nevertheless, lead on ! " And the boj^ took his pipe out 
of his mouth and belabored the ribs of his beast. 

And the horse made believe, as it were, to trot, and jolted 
the ardent travellers ; and we passed the green trees of Tinne- 
hinch, which the grateful Irish nation bought and consecrated 
to the race of Grattan ; and we said, " What nation will spend 
fifty thousand pounds for our benefit? " and we wished we might 
get it ; and we passed on. The birds were, meanwhile, chant- 
ing concerts in the woods ; and the sun was double-gilding the 
golden corn. 

And we came to a hill, which was steep and long of de- 
scent ; and the car-boy said, " My lords, I may ncA'er descend 
this hill with safety to your honors' bones : for my horse is not 
sure of foot, and loves to kneel in the highwa3^ Descend 
therefore, and I will await your return here on the top of the 
hill." 

So we descended, and one grumbled greatly ; but the other 
said, "Sir, be of good heart! the wa}^ is pleasant, and the 
footman will not weary as he travels it." And we went through 
the swinging gates of a park, where the harvest-men sate at 
their potatoes — a mealy meal. 

The way was not short, as the companion said, but still it 
was a pleasant way to walk. Green stretches of grass were 
there, and a forest nigh at hand. It was but September: yet 
the autumn had already begun to turn the green trees into red ; 
and the ferns that were waving underneath the trees were red- 
dened and fading too. And as Dr. Jones's boys of a Saturday 



218 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

disport in the meadows after school-hours, 'SO did the httle 
clouds run races over the waving grass. And as grave ushers 
who look on smiling at the sports of these little ones, so stood 
the old trees around the green, whispering and nodding to one 
another. 

Purple mountains rose before us in front, and we began 
presently to hear a noise and roaring afar off — not a fierce 
roaring, but one deep and calm, like to the respiration of the 
great sea, as he lies basking on the sands in the sunshine. 

As we came soon to a little hillock of green, which was 
standing before a huge mountain of purple black, and there 
were white clouds over the mountains, and some trees waving 
on the hillock, and between the trunks of them we saw the 
waters of the waterfall descending ; and there w^as a snob on a 
rock, who stood and examined the same. 

Then we approached the water, passing the clump of oak- 
trees. The waters were white, and the cliffs which the}^ var- 
nished were purple. But those round about were gra}^, tall, 
and gay with blue shadows, and ferns, heath, and rusty-colored 
funguses sprouting here and there in the same. But in the 
ravine where the waters fell, roaring as it were with the fall, 
the rocks were dark, and the foam of the cataract was of a 
yellow color. And we stood, and were silent, and wondered. 
And still the trees continued to wave, and the waters to roar 
and tumble, and the sun to shine, and the fresh wind to blow. 

And we stood and looked : and said in our hearts it was 
beautiful, and* bethought us how shall all this be set down in 
types and ink? (for our trade is to write books and sell the 
same — a chapter for a guinea, a line for a penn}') ; and the 
waterfall roared in answer, "For shame, O vain man ! think 
not of thy books and of thy pence now ; but look on, and wonder, 
and be silent. Can types or ink describe my beaut}', though 
aided by thy small wit? I am made for thee to praise and 
wonder at : be content, and cherish th}^ wonder. It is enough 
that thou hast seen a great thing : is it needful that thou 
shouldst prate of all thou hast seen?" 

So we came awa}^ silentl}-, and walked through the park 
without looking back. And there was a man at the gate, who 
opened it and seemed to say, " Give me a little sixpence." 
But we gave nothing, and walked up the hill, which was sore 
to climb ; and on the summit found the car-bo}', who was lolling 
on his cushions and smoking, as happ}^ as a lord. 

Quitting the waterfall at Powerscourt (the grand st3'le in 
which it has been described was adopted in order that the 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 219 

reader, who has probably read other descriptions of the spot, 
might have at least something new in this account of it), we 
speedily left behind us the rich and wooded tract of countrj- about 
Powerscourt, and came to a bleak tract, which, perhaps by 
way of contrast with so much natural wealth, is not unpleasing, 
and begftn ascending what is very properly called the Long Hill. 
Here you see, in the midst of the loneliness, a grim-looking 
barrack, that was erected when, after the Rebellion, it was 
necessary for some time to occupj' this most rebellious countrj^ ; 
and a church looking equall}^ dismal, a lean-looking sham- 
Gothic building, in the midst of this green desert. The road 
to Luggala, whither we were bound, turns oif the Long Hill, 
up another hill, which seems still longer and steeper, inasmuch 
as it was ascended perforce on foot, and over lonely- boggy 
moorlands, enlivened by a huge gray boulder plumped here 
and there, and comes, one wonders how, to the spot. Close to 
this hill of Slievebuck, is marked in the maps a district called 
" the uninhabited countr}^" and these stones probably fell at a 
period of time when not only this district, but all the world 
was uninhabited, — and in some convulsion of the neighboring 
mountains this and other enormous rocks were cast abroad. 

From behind one of them, or out of the ground somehow, as 
we went up the hill, sprang little ragged guides, who are alwaj's 
lurking about in search of stray pence from tourists ; and we 
had three or four of such at our back by the time we were at 
the top of the hill. Almost the first sight we saw was a smart 
coach-and-four, with a loving wedding-party v>^ithin, and a 
genteel valet and lady's-maid without. I wondered had they 
been burning their modest loves in the uninliabited district? 
But presentl3' , from the top of the hill, I saw the place in v/hich 
their honeymoon had been passed : nor could any pair of lovers, 
nor a pious hermit bent on retirement from the world, have 
selected a more sequestered spot. 

Standing by a big shining granite stone on the hill-top, we 
looked immediately down upon Lough Tay — a little round 
lake of half a mile in length, which la}^ beneath us as black as 
a pool of ink — a high, crumbling, white-sided mountain falling 
abruptly into it on the side opposite to us, with a huge ruin of 
shattered rocks at its base. Northwards, we could see between 
mountains a portion of the neighboring lake of Lough Dan — 
which, too, was dark, though the Annamoe river, which con- 
nects the two lakes, lay coursing through the greenest possible 
flats and sliining as bright as silver. Brilliant green shores, 
too, come gently down to the southern side of Lough Tay ; 



220 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

through these runs another river, with a small rapid or fall, 
which makes a music for the lake, and here, amidst beautiful 
woods, lies a villa, where the four horses, the groom and valet. 
the postilions, and the 3'oung couple had, no doubt, been hiding 
themselves. 

Hereabouts, the owner of the villa, Mr. Latouch'e, has a 
great grazing establishment ; and some herd-boj's, no doubt 
seeing straugers on the hill, thought proper that the cattle 
should stray that waj^ that thej^ might drive them back again, 
and parentheticall}' ask the travellers for money, — ever^-body 
asks travellers for money, as it seems. Next day, admiring in 
a laborer's arms a little child — his master's son, who could not 
speak — the laborer, his he-nurse, spoke for him, and demanded 
a little sixpence to bu}^ the child apples. One grows not a little 
callous to this sort of beggary : and the only one of our numerous 
young guides who got a reward was the raggedest of them. He 
and his companions had just come from school, he said, — not 
a Government school, but a private one, where they paid. I 
asked how much, — " Was it a penny a week? " " No ; not a 
penny a week, but so much at the end of the 3^ear." " Was it a 
barrel of meal, or a few stone of potatoes, or something of that 
sort?" " Yes ; something of that sort." 

The something must, however, have been a very small some- 
thing on the poor lad's part. He was one of four young ones, 
who lived with their mother, a widow. He had no work ; he 
could get no work ; nobody had work. His mother had a 
cabin with no land — not a perch of land, no potatoes — noth- 
ing but the cabin. How did the}^ live? — the mother knitted 
stockings. I asked had she any stockings at home? — the boy 
said, " No." How did he live? — he lived how he could ; and 
we gave him threepence, with which, in delight, he went bound- 
ing off to the poor mother. Gracious heavens ! what a history 
to hear, told by a child looking quite cheerful as he told it, and 
as if the story was quite a common one. And a common one, 
too, it is : and God forgive us. 

Here is another, and of a similar low kind, but rather 
pleasanter. We asked the car-boy how much he earned. He 
said, "Seven shillings a week, and his chances" — which, in 
the summer season, from the number of tourists who are jolted 
in his car, must be tolerably good — eight or nine shillings a 
week more, probably. But, he said, in winter his master did 
not hire him for the car ; and he was obliged to logk for work 
elsewhere : as for saving, he never had saved a shilling in hia 
life. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 221 

We asked him was he married? and he said, No, but he 
was as good as married ; for he had an old mother and four 
Httle brothers to keep, and six mouths to feed, and to dress 
himself decent to drive the gentlemen. Was not the " as good 
as married " a prettj^ expression? and might not some of what 
are called their betters learn a little good from these simple 
poor creatures ? There's man}' a 3'oung fellow who sets up in 
the world would think it rather hard to have four brothers to 
support ; and I have heard more than one genteel Christian 
pining over five hundred a 3'ear. A few such ma}' read this, 
perhaps : let them think of the Irish widow with the four chil- 
dren and nothing^ and at least be more contented with their port 
and sherry and their leg of mutton. 

Tliis brings us at once to the subject of dinner and the 
little village, Roundwood, which was reached by this time, 
lying a few miles off from the lakes, and reached by a road not 
particularly remarkable for any picturesqueness in beauty ; 
though you pass through a simple, pleasing landscape, always 
agreeable as a repose, I think, after viewing a sight so beauti- 
ful as those mountain lakes we have just quitted. All the hills 
up which we had panted had imparted a fierce sensation of 
hunger ; and it was nobly decreed that we should stop in the 
middle of the street of Roundwood, impartially between the 
two hotels, and solemnly decide upon a resting-place after hav- 
ing inspected the larders and bedrooms of each. 

And here, as an impartial writer, I must say that the hotel of 
Mr. Wheatly possesses attractions which few men can resist, in 
the shape of two very handsome young ladies his daughters ; 
whose faces were they but painted on his signboard, instead of 
the mysterious piece which ornaments it, would infallibly draw 
tourists into the house, thereby giving the opposition inn of 
Murphy not the least chance of custom. 

A landlord's daughters in England, inhabiting a little coun- 
try inn, would be apt to lay the cloth for the traveller, and their 
respected father would bring in the first dish of the dinner ; 
but this arrangement is never known in Ireland : we scarcely 
ever see the cheering countenance of my landlord. And as for 
the young ladies of Roundwood, I am bound to say that no 
young persons in Baker Street could be more genteel ; and that 
our bill, when it was brought the next morning, was written in 
as pretty and fashionable a lady's hand as ever was formed in 
the most elegant finishing school at Pimlico. 

Of the dozen houses of the little village, the half seem to be 
houses of entertainment. A green common stretches before 



222 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

these, with its rural accompaniments of geese, pigs, and idlers ; 
a park and plantation at the end of the village, and plent}' of 
trees round about it, give it a happ}', comfortable, English 
look ; which is, to mj" notion, the best compliment that can be 
paid to a hamlet : for where, after all, are villages so pretty? 

Here, rather to one's wonder — for the district was not 
thickl}^ enough populated to encourage dramatic exhibitions — 
a sort of theatre was erected on the common, a ragged cloth 
covering the spectators and the actors, and the former (if there 
were any) obtaining admittance through two doors on the stage 
in front, marked "pit & galery." Why should the word not 
be spelt with one l as with two ? 

The entrance to the " pit " was stated to be threepence, and 
to the "galery" twopence. We heard the drums and pipes 
of the orcliestra as we sat at dinner : it seemed to be a good 
opportunity to examine. Irish humor of a peculiar sort, and we 
promised ourselves a pleasant evening in the pit. 

But although the drums began to beat at half-past six, and a 
crowd of young people formed round the ladder at that hour, lo 
whom the manager of the troop addressed the most vehement 
invitations to enter, nobody seemed to be inclined to mount the 
steps : for the fact most likely was, that not one of the poor 
fellows possessed the requisite twopence which would induc^e 
the fat old lady who sat by it to fling open the gallery door. 
At one time I thought of offering a half-crown for a purchase of 
tickets for twent}^ and so at once benefiting the manager and 
the crowd of ragged urchins who stood wistfull}^ without his 
pavilion ; but it seemed ostentatious, and we had not the 
courage to face the tall man in the great-coat gesticulating and 
shouting in front of the stage, and make the proposition. 

Why not? It would have given the company potatoes at 
least for supper, and made a score of children happy. The}' 
would have seen "the learned pig who spells your name, the 
feats of manly activity, the wonderful Italian vaulting ; " and 
they would have heard the comic songs b\' ' ' 3-our humble 
servant." 

" Your humble servant" was the head of the troop : a long 
man, with a broad accent, a j-ellow top-coat, and a piteous lean 
face. What a speculation was this poor fellow's ! he must have 
a company of at least a dozen to keep. There were three girls 
in trousers, who danced in front of the stage, in Polish caps, 
tossing their arms about to the tunes of three musicianers; 
there was a page, two young tragedy-actors, and a clown ; 
there was the fat old woman at the gallery-door waiting for tho 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 223 

twopences ; there was the Jack Pudding ; and it was evident 
that there must have been some one within, or else who would 
take care of the learned pig? 

The poor manager stood in front, and rshoated to the little 
Irishr}^ beneath ; but no one seemed to mo\'e. Then he brought 
forward Jack Pudding, and had a dialogue vv^ith him ; the jocu- 
larity of which, by heavens ! made the heart ache to hear. 
We had determined, at least, to go to the play before that, but 
the dialogue was too much : we were obliged to walk awa}^, 
unable to face that dreadful Jack Pudding, and heard the poor 
manager shouting still for man}' hours through the night, and 
the drums thumping vain invitations to the people. O unhappy 
children of the Hibernian Thespis ! it is m}' belief that they 
must have eaten the learned pig that night for supper. 

It was Sunday morning when we left the little inn at Round- 
wood : the people were flocking in numbers to Church, on cars, 
and pinions, neat, comfortable, and well dressed. We saw in 
this country more health, more beauty, and more shoes than I 
have remarked in an}' quarter. That famous resort of sight- 
seers, the Devil's Glen, lies at a few miles' distance from the little 
village ; and, having gone on the car as near to the spot as the 
road permitted, we made across the fields — bogg}^, stony, ill- 
tilled fields they were — for about a mile, at the end of which 
walk we found ourselves on the brow of the ravine that has 
received so ugly a name. 

Is there a legend about the place ? No doubt for this, as 
for almost every other natural curiosity in Ireland, there is 
some tale of monk, saint, fairy, or devil ; but our guide on the 
present day was a barrister from Dublin, who did not deal in 
fictions b}^ an}' means so romantic, and the history, whatever it 
was, remained untold. Perhaps the little breechesless cicerone 
who offered himself would have given us the story, but we dis- 
missed the urchin with scorn, and had to find our own way 
through bush and bramble down to the entrance of the gully. 

Here we came on a cataract, which looks very big in Messrs. 
Curr}''s pretty little Guide-book (that every traveller to Wick- 
low will be sure to have in his pocket) ; but the waterfall, on 
this shining Sabbath morning, was disposed to labor as little 
as possible, and indeed is a spirit of a very humble, ordinary 
sort. 

But there is a ravine of a mile and a half, through which a 
river runs roaring (a lady who keeps the gate will not object to 
receive a gratuity) — there is a ravine, or Devil's glen, which 
forms a delightful wild walk, and where a Methuselah of a 



224 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

landscape-painter might find studies for all his life long. All 
sorts of foliage and color, all sorts of delightful caprices of light 
and shadow — the river tumbling and frothing amidst the boul- 
ders — " raucum per l^via murmur saxa ciens," and a chorus 
of 150,000 birds (there might be more), hopping, twittering, 
singing under the clear cloudless Sabbath scene, make this walk 
one of the most delightful that can be taken ; and indeed I 
hope there is no harm in saj'ing that 3'ou ma}' get as much out 
of an hour's walk there as out of the best hour's extempore 
preaching. But this was as a salvo to our conscience for not 
being at church. 

Here, however, was a long aisle, arched gothically overhead, 
in a much better taste than is seen in some of those dismal new 
churches ; and, by way of painted glass, the sun lighting up 
multitudes of various-colored leaves, and the birds for choris- 
ters, and the river by wa}' of organ, and in it stones enough to 
make a whole library of sermons. No man can walk in such 
a place without feeling grateful, and grave, and humble ; and 
without thanking heaven for it as he comes Siway. And, walk- 
ing and musing in this free, happy place, one could not help 
thinkhig of a million and a half of brother cockney's shut up in 
their huge prison (the treadmill for the day being idle), and 
told by some legislators that relaxation is sinful, that works 
of art are abominations except on week-days, and that their 
proper place of resort is a dingy tabernacle, where a loud-voiced 
man is howhng about hell-fire in bad grammar. Is not this 
beautiful world, too, a part of our religion? Yes, truly, in 
whatever wa}' my Lord John Russell ma}^ vote ; and it is to be 
learned without having recourse to an}^ professor at an}' Be- 
thesda, Ebenezer, or Jerusalem : there can be no mistake about 
it ; no terror, no bigoted dealing of damnation to one's neigh- 
bor : it is taught without false emphasis or vain spouting on 
the preacher's part — how should there be such with such a 
preacher ? 

This wild onslaught upon sermons and preachers needs per- 
haps an explanation : for which purpose we must whisk back 
out of the Devil's Glen (improperly so named) to Dublin, and 
to this day week, when, at this very time, I heard one of the 
first preachers of the city deliver a sermon that lasted for an 
hour and twenty minutes — time enough to walk up the Glen 
and back, and remark a thousand delightful things by the way. 

Mr. G 's church (though there would be no harm in 

mentioning the gentleman's name, for a more conscientious and 
excellent man, as it is said, cannot be) is close by the Custom 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 22o 

House in Dublin, and crowded morning and evening with his 
admirers. The service was beautifull}' read b}' him, and the 
audience joined in the responses, and in the psalms and hymns,* 
with a fervor -which is verj^ unusual in England. Then came 
the sermon ; and what more can be said of it tlian that it was 
extempore, and lasted for an hour and twenty minutes? The 
orator never failed once for a word, so amazing is his practice ; 
though, as a stranger to this kind of exercise, I could not help 
trembling for the performer, as one has for Madame Saqui on 
the slack rope, in the midst of a blaze of rockets and squibs, 
expecting every minute she must go over. But the artist was 
too skilled for that ; and after some tremendous bound of a 
metaphor, in the midst of vfhich you expect he must tumble 
neck and heels, and be engulfed in the dark abyss of nonsense, 
down he was sure to come, in a most graceful attitude too, in 
the midst of a fluttering "Ah!" from a thousand wondering 
people. 

But I declare solemnly that when I came to try and recol- 
lect of what the exhibition consisted, and give an account of 
the sermon at dinner that evening, it was quite impossible 
to remember a word of it; although, to do the orator justice, 
he repeated many of his opinions a great number of times over. 
Thus, if he had to discourse of death to us, it was, " At the 
approach of the Dark Angel of the Grave," " At the coming 
of the grim King of Terrors," " At the warning of that awful 
Power to whom all of us must bow down," " At the summons 
of that Pallid Spectre whose equal foot knocks at the monarch's 
tower or the poor man's cabin " — and so forth. There is an 
examiner of pla3's, and indeed there ought to be an examiner 
of sermons, by which audiences are to be full}^ as much injured 
or misguided as b}' the other named exhibitions. What call 
have reverend gentlemen to repeat their dicta half a dozen times 
over, like Sir Robert Peel when he says anything that he fancies 
to be witty ? Why are men to be kept for an hour and twenty 
minutes listening to that which may be more effectually said in 
twenty ? 

* Here is an extract from one of the latter — 

" Hasten to some distant isle, 
In the bosom of the deep, 
Where the skies for ever smile. 
And the blacks for ever weep." 

Is it not a shame that such nonsensical false twaddle should be sung in 
a house of the Church of England, and by people assembled for grave and 
decent worship'? 

15 



226 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

And it need not be said here that a church is not a sermoii- 
house — that it is devoted to a purpose much more loft}" and 
sacred, for which has been set apart the noblest service, every 
single word of which latter has been previously' weighed with 
the most scrupulous and thoughtful reverence. And after this 
sublime work of genius, learning, and pietj- is concluded, is 
it not a shame that a man should mount a desk, who has not 
taken the trouble to arrange his words beforehand, and speak 
thence his crude opinions in his doubtful grammar? It will be 
answered that the extempore preacher does not deliver crude 
opinions, but that he arranges his discourse beforehand : to all 

which it may be replied that Mr. contradicted himself 

more than once in the course of the above oration, and repeated 
himself a half-dozen of times. A man in that place has no 
right to sa}' a word too much or too little. 

And it comes to this, — it is the preacher the people follow, 
not the pra3'ers ; or why is this church more frequented than 
an}' other? It is that warm emphasis, and word-mouthing, and 
vulgar imager}', and glib rotundit}- of phrase, which brings 
them together and keeps them happy and breathless. Some of 
this class call the Cathedral Service Paddy's Opera ; they say 
it is Popish — downright scarlet — they won't go to it. They 
will have none but their own hymns — and pretty the}^ are — 
no ornament but those of their own minister, his rank incense 
and tawdr}^ rhetoric. Coming out of the church, on the Cus- 
tom House steps hard b}-, there was a fellow with a bald large 
forehead, a new black coat, a little Bible, spouting — spouting 
' ' in omne volubilis aevum " — the ver}^ counterpart of the rev- 
erend gentleman hard by. It was just the same thing, just as 
well done : the eloquence quite as easy and round, the amplifi- 
cations as read}^ the big words rolling round the tongue just as 
within doors. But we are out of the Devil's Glen by this time ; 
and perhaps, instead of delivering a sermon there, we had bet- 
ter have been at church hearing one. 

The country people, however, are far more pious ; and the 
road along which we went to Glendalough was thronged with 
happy figures of people plodding to or from mass. A chapel 
yard was covered with gray cloaks ; and at a little inn hard %, 
stood numerous carts, cars, shandrydans, and pillioned horses, 
awaiting the end of the prayers. The aspect of the country 
is wild, and beautiful of course ; but why try to describe it? I 
think the Irish scenery just like the Irish melodies — sweet, 
wild, and sad even in the sunshine. You can neither represent 
one nor the other by words ; but I am sure if one could trans- 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 227 

late "The Meeting of the Waters " into form and colors, it 
would fall into the exact shape of a tender Irish landscape. So 
take and play that tune upon 3'our fiddle, and shut your eyes^ 
and muse a little, and you have the whole scene before 3'ou. 

I don't know if tliere is any tune about Glendalough ; but 
if there be, it must be the most delicate, fantastic, fairy melody 
that ever was played. Only fancy can describe the charms of 
that delightful place. Directly you see it, it smiles at you as 
innocent and friendly as a Uttle child ; and once seen, it becomes 
your friend forever, and 3"ou are alwaj's happy when you think 
of it. Here is a little lake, and little fords across it, surrounded 
by httle mountains, and which lead you now to little islands 
where there are all sorts of fantastic little old chapels and grave- 
yards ; or, again, into little brakes and shrubberies where small 
rivers are crossing over little rocks, plashing and jumping, and 
singing as loud as ever they can. Thomas Moore has written 
rather an awful description of it ; and it may indeed appear 
big to him^ and to the fairies who must have inhabited the place 
in old days, that's clear. For who could be accommodated in 
it except the little people ? 

There are seven churches, whereof the clergy must have 
been the smallest persons, and have had the smallest benefices 
and the littlest congregations ever known. As for the cathe- 
dral, what a bishoplet it must have been that presided there. 
The place would hardl}' hold the Bishop of London, or Mr. 
Sydney Smith — two full-sized clergymen of these daj^s — who 
would be sure to quarrel there for want of room, or for any 
other reason. There must have been a dean no bigger than 
Mr. Moore before mentioned, and a chapter no bigger than 
that chapter in "Tristram Shandy" which does not contain a 
single word, and mere popguns of canons, and a beadle about 
as tall as Crofton Croker, to whip the little boys who were play- 
ing at taw (with peas) in the j'ard. 

They say there was a universitj', too, in the place, with 
I don't know how many thousand scholars ; but for accounts of 
this there is an excellent guide on the spot, who, for a shilling 
or two, will tell all he knows, and a great deal more too. 

There are numerous legends, too, concerning St. Kevin, and 
Fin MacCoul and the Devil, and the deuce knows what. But 
these stories are, I am bound to say, abominablj' stupid and 
stale ; and some guide * ought to be seized upon and choked, 

* It must be said, for the worthy fellow who accompanied us, and who 
acted as cicerone previously to the great Willis, the great Hall, the great 



228 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

and flung into the lake, by way of warning to the others to stop 
their interminable prate. This is the curse attending curiosity, 
for visitors to almost all the show-places in the country : you 
have not only the guide — who himself talks too much — but 
a string of ragged amateurs, starting from bush and briar, 
read}^ to carry his honor's umbrella or my lady's cloak, or to 
help either up a bank or across a stream. And all the while 
they look wistfully in your face, saying, " Give me sixpence ! " 
as clear as looks can speak. The unconscionable rogues ! how 
dare they, for the sake of a little starvation or so, interrupt 
gentlefolks in their pleasure ! 

A long tract of wild country, with a park or two here and 
there, a police-barrack perched on a hill, a half-starved-looking 
church stretching its long scraggy steeple over a wide plain, 
mountains whose base is richl}'- cultivated while their tops are 
purple and lonely, warm cottages and farms nestling at the foot 
of the hills, and humble cabins here and there on the waj^side, 
accompany the car, that jingles back over fifteen miles of ground 
through Inniskerry to Bra3\ You pass by wild gaps and Greater 
and Lesser Sugar Loaves ; and about eight o'clock, when the 
sk3^ is quite red with sunset, and the long shadows are of such 
a purple as (the}' maj^ sa}' what the}^ like) Claude could no more 
paint than I can, 3'ou catch a glimpse of the sea be3'ond Bray, 
and crying out, ' ' edXaTra, OdXaTra \ " affect to be wondrously 
delighted by the sight of that element. 

The fact is, however, that at Bra}^ is one of the best inns in 
Ireland ; and there you may be perfect^ sure is a good dinner 
ready, five minutes after the honest car-boy, with innumerable 
hurroos and smacks of his whip, has brought up his passengers 
to the door with a gallop. 



As for the Vale of Avoca, I have not described that : be- 
cause (as has been before occasionally remarked) it is vain to 
attempt to describe natural beauties ; and because, secondly 
(though this is a minor consideration) , we did not go thither. 
But we went on another day to the Dargle, and to Shanganah, 
and the city of Cabinteely, and to the Scalp — that wild pass : 
and I have no more to say about them than about the Vale of 
Avoca. The Dublin Cockney, who has these places at his door, 

Barrow, that though he wears a ragged coat his manners are those of a 
gentleman, and his conversation evinces no small talent, taste, and schol- 
nrsliip. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 229 

knows them quite well ; and as for the Londoner, who is medi- 
tating a trip to the Rhine for the summer, or to Brittan}^ or 
Normand}', let us beseech him to see his own country first (if 
Lord Lyndhurst will allow us to call this a part of it) ; and 
if, after twent3'-four hours of an eas}^ journe}' from London, 
the Cocknej^ be not placed in the midst of a countr}- as beau- 
tiful, as strange to him, as romantic as the most imaginative 
man on 'Change can desire, — may this work be praised by the 
critics all round and never reach a second edition ! 



CHAPTER XXV. 

COUNTRY MEETINGS IN KILDARE — MEATH DROGHEDA. 

An agricultural show was to be held at the town of Naas, 
and I was glad, after having seen the gi'and exhibition at Cork, 
to be present at a more homel}', unpretending country festival, 
where the ej^es of Europe, as the orators say, did not happen 
to be looking on. Perhaps men are apt, under the idea of 
this sort of inspection, to assume an air somewhat more pom- 
pous and magnificent than that which they wear ever}^ day. 
The Naas meeting was conducted without the slightest attempt 
at splendor or display — a hearty, modest, matter-of-fact coun- 
tiT meeting. 

Market-day was fixed upon of course, and the town, as we 
drove into it, was thronged with frieze-coats, the market-place 
bright with a great number of apple-stalls, and the street filled 
with carts and vans of numerous small tradesmen, vending- 
cheeses, or cheap crockeries, or ready-made clothes and such 
goods. A clothier, with a great crowd round him, had arrayed 
himself in a staring new waistcoat of his stock, and was turn- 
ing slowly round to exhibit the garment, spouting all the 
while to his audience, and informing them that he could fit out 
any person, in one minute, "in a complete new shuit from 
head to fut." There seemed to be a crowd of gossips at 
every shop door, and, of course, a number of gentlemen wait- 
ing at the inn-steps, criticising the cars and carriages as they 
drove up. Only those who live in small towns know what an 
object of interest the street becomes, and the carriages and 
horses which pass therein. Most of the gentlemen had sent 



230 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

stock to compete for the prizes. The shepherds were tending 
the stock. The judges were making their award, and until 
their sentence was given, no competitors coukl enter the show- 
3^ard. Tlie entrance to that, meanwhile, was thronged by a 
great posse of people, and as the gate abutted upon an old gray 
tower, a number of people had scaled that, and were looking at 
the beasts in the court below. Likewise, there was a tall hay- 
stack, which possessed similar advantages of situation, and 
was equally thronged with men and boys. The rain had fallen 
heavily all night, the heavens were still black with it, and the 
coats of the men, and the red feet of many ragged female 
spectators, were liberall}- spattered with mud. 

The first object of interest we were called upon to see was 
a famous stallion ; and passing through the little bj-streets 
(dirt}^ and small, but not so small and dirty as other by-streets 
to be seen in Irish towns), we came to a porte-cochere, lead- 
ing into a 3'ard filled with wet fresh hay, sinking juicily under 
the feet ; and here in a shed was the famous stallion. His 
sire must have been a French diligence-horse ; he w^as of a 
roan color, with a broad chest, and short, clean legs. His 
forehead was ornamented with a blue ribbon, on which his 
name and prizes were painted, and on his chest hung a couple 
of medals by a chain — a silver one awarded to him at Cork, 
a gold one cariied oflT by superior merit from other stallions 
assembled to contend at Dublin. When the points of the ani- 
mal were suflficiently discussed, a mare, his sister, was pro- 
duced'-, and admired still more than himself. Any man who has 
witnessed the performance of the French horses in the Havre 
diligence, must admire the vast strength and the extraordinary 
swiftness of the breed ; and it was^ agreed on all hands, that 
such horses would prove valual^le in this country, where it is 
hard now to get a stout horse for the road, so much has the 
fashion for blood, and nothing but blood, prevailed of late. 

By the time the stalhon was seen, the judges had done 
their arbitration ; and we went to the yard, where broad- 
backed sheep were resting peaceably in their pens ; bulls were 
led about by the nose ; enormous turnips, both Swedes and 
Aberdeens, reposed in the mud ; little cribs of geese, hens, and 
peafowl were come to try for the prize ; and pigs might be seen 
— some encumbered with enormous families, others with fat 
merely. They poked up one brute to walk for us : he made, 
after many futile attempts, a desperate rush forward, his leg 
almost lost in fat, his immense sides quivering and shaking 
with the exercise; he was then allowed to retuin to his straw, 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 231 

into which he sank panting. Let us hope that he went home 
with a pink ribbon round his tail that night, and got a prize 
for his obesit3^ 

I think the pink ribbon was, at least to a Cockney, the 
pleasantest sight of all : for on the evening after the show we 
saw man}' carts going away so adorned, having carried off 
prizes on the occasion. First came a great bull stepping 
along, he and his driver having each a bit of pink on their 
heads ; then a cart full of sheep ; then a car of good-natured- 
looking people, having a churn in the midst of them that 
sported a pink favor. When all the prizes were distributed, a 
select compan}' sat down to dinner at Macavoy's Hotel ; and 
no doubt a reporter who was present has given in the count}^ 
paper an account of all the good things eaten and said. At 
our end of the table we had saddle-of-mutton, and I remarked 
a boiled leg of the same delicac}^, with turnips, at the oppo- 
site extremity. Before the vice I observed a large piece of 
roast-beef, which I could not observe at the end of dinner, 
because it was all swallowed. After the mutton we had cheese, 
and were just beginning to think that we had dined very suffi- 
ciently, when a squadron of apple-pies came smoking in, and 
convinced us that, in such a glorious cause, Britons are never 
at fault. We ate up the apple-pies, and then the punch was 
called for by those who preferred that beverage to wine, and 
the speeches began. 

The chairman gave " The Queen," nine times nine and one 
cheer more ; " Prince Albert and the rest of the Royal Family," 
great cheering ; "The Lord-Lieutenant" — his Excellency's 
health was received rather cooU}', I thought. And then began 
the real business of the night : health of the Naas Societ}^ 
health of the Agricultural Societ}', and healths all round ; not 
forgetting the Sallymount Beagles, and the Kildare Foxhounds 
— which toasts were received with loud cheers and halloos by 
most of the gentlemen present, and elicited brief speeches from 
the masters of the respective hounds, promising good sport 
next season. After the Kildare Foxhounds, an old farmer 
in a gray coat got gravely up, and without being requested to 
do so in the least, sang a song, stating that 

" At seven in the morning by most of the clocks 
We rode to Kilruddery in search of a fox ; " 

and at the conclusion of his song challenged a friend to give 
another song. Another old farmer, on this, rose and sang one 
of Morris's songs with a great deal of queer humor ; and no 



232 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

doubt many more songs were sung during the evening, for 
plenty of hot-water jugs were blocking the door as we went 
out. 

The joll}' frieze-coated songster who celebrated the Kilrud- 
dery fox, sang, it must be confessed, most wofull}^ out of tune ; 
but still it was pleasant to hear him, and I think the meeting 
was the most agreeable one I have seen in Ireland : there was 
more good-humor, more cordial union of classes, more frank- 
ness and manliness, than one is accustomed to find in Irish 
meetings. All the speeches were kind-hearted, straightforward 
speeches, without a word of politics or an attempt at oratory : 
it was impossible to say whether the gentlemen present were 
Protestant or Catholic, — each one had a hearty word of en- 
couragement for his tenant, and a kind welcome for his neigh- 
bor. There were forty stout, well-to-do farmers in the room, 
renters of fifty, sevent}', a hundred acres of land. There were 
no clergymen present ; though it would have been pleasant to 
have seen one of each persuasion to say grace for the meeting 
and the meat. 

At a similar meeting at Ballytore the next day, I had an 
opportunit}' of seeing a still finer collection of stock than had 
been brought to Naas, and at the same time one of the most 
beautiful flourishing villages in Ireland. The road to it from 

H town, if not remarkable for its rural beaut}^, is pleasant 

to travel, for evidences of neat and prosperous husbandry are 
around 3'ou everywhere : rich crops in the fields and neat cot- 
tages by the roadside, accompan3'ing us as far as Ball3-tore — 
a white, straggling village, surrounding green fields of some 
five furlongs square, with a river running in the midst of them, 
and numerous fine cattle in the green. Here is a large wind- 
mill, fitted up like a castle, with battlements and towers : the 
castellan thereof is a good-natured old Quaker gentleman, and 
numbers more of his following inhabit the town. 

The consequence was that the shops of the village were the 
neatest possible, though b}- no means grand or portentous. Why 
should Quaker shops be neater than other shops ? They suffer 
to the full as much oppression as the rest of the hereditary 
bondsmen ; and yet, in spite of their tj^-ants, the}' prosper. 

I must not attempt to pass an opinion upon the stock 
exhibited at Ballytore ; but, in the opinion of some large agri- 
cultural proprietors present, it might have figured with advan- 
tage in any show in England, and certainly was finer than the 
exhibition at Naas ; which, however, is a very young society. 
The best part of the show, however, to ever3'body's thinking, 



THE IKISH SKETCH BOOK. 233 

(and it is pleasant to observe the manly fairplay spirit which 
characterizes the societj^), was, that the prizes of the Irish 
Agricultural Society were awarded to two men — one a laborer, 
the other a ver}^ small holder, both having reared the best stock 
exhibited on the occasion. At the dinner, which took place 
in a barn of the inn, smartly decorated with laurels for the 
purpose, there was as good and stout a bod}' of yeomen as at 
Naas the day previous, but onty two landlords ; and here, too, 
as at Naas, neither priest nor parson. Cattle-feeding of course 
formed the principal theme of the after-dinner discourse — not, 
however, altogether to the exclusion of tillage ; and there was 
a good and useful prize for those who could not afford to rear 
fat oxen — for the best kept cottage and garden, namely — 
which was won b}^ a poor man with a large famity and scant}^ 
precarious earnings, but who yet found means to make the 
most of his small resources and to keep his little cottage neat 
and cleanly. The tariff and the plentiful harvest together had 
helped to bring down prices severely ; and we heard from the 
farmers much desponding talk. I saw hay sold for 2/. the ton, 
and oats for 8s. 3d. the barrel. 

In the little village I remarked scared}' a single beggar, 
and very few bare feet indeed among the crowds who came 
to see the show. Here the Quaker village had the advantage 
of the town of Naas, in spite of its poor-house, which was 
only half full when we went to see it ; but the people prefer 
beggary and starvation abroad to comfort and neatness in the 
union-house. 

A neater establishment cannot be seen than this ; and liberty 
must be very sweet indeed, when people prefer it and starvation 
to the certainty of comfort in the union-house. We went to see 
it after the show at Naas. 

The first persons we saw at the gate of the place were four 
buxom lasses in blue jackets and petticoats, who were giggling 
and laughing as gayly as so many young heiresses of a thousand 
a year, and who had a color in their cheeks that any lady of 
Almack's might envy. They were cleaning pails and carrying in 
water from a green court or playground in front of the house, 
which some of the al^le-bodied men of the place were busy in in- 
closing. Passing through the large entrance of the house, a non- 
descript Gothic building, we came to a court divided by a road 
and two low walls : the right inclosure is devoted to the boys of 
the establishment, of whom there were about fifty at play : boys 
more healthy or happy it is impossible to see. Separated from 
them is the nursery ; and here were seventy or eighty young 



234 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

cliildreD, a shrill clack of happ}^ voices leading the way to the 
door where they were to be found. Boys and children had a 
comfortable little uniform, and shoes were furnished for all; 
though the authorities did not seem particularly severe in en- 
forcing the wearing of the shoes, which most of the young per- 
sons left behind them. 

In spite of all The Times' s in the world, the place was a 
happy one. It is kept with a neatness and comfort to which, 
until his entrance into the union-house, the Irish peasant must 
perforce have been a stranger. All the rooms and passages 
are white, well scoured, and airy ; all the windows are glazed ; 
all the beds have a good store of blankets and sheets. In the 
women's dormitories there lay several infirm persons, not ill 
enough for the infirmary, and glad of the society of the com- 
mon room : in one of the men's sleeping-rooms we found a 
score of old gray-coated men sitting round another who was 
reading prayers to them. And outside the place we found a 
woman starving in rags, as she had been ragged and starving 
for years : her husband was wounded, and lay in his house upon 
straw ; her children were ill with a fever ; she had neither meat, 
nor physic, nor clothing, nor fresh air, nor warmth for them ; — 
and she preferred to starve on rather than enter the house ! 

The last of our agricultural excursions was to the fair of 
Castledermot, celebrated for the show of cattle to be seen there, 
and attended by the farmers and gentry of the neighboring 
counties. Long before reaching the place we met troops of 
cattle coming from it — stock of a beautiful kind, for the most 
part large, sleek, white, long-backed, most of the larger ani- 
mals being bound for England. There was ver}' near as fine a 
show in the pastures along the road — which lies across a light 
green country with plent}^ of trees to ornament the landscape, 
and some neat cottages along the roadside. 

At the turnpike of Castledermot the droves of cattle met us 
b}^ scores no longer, but by hundreds, and the long street of 
the place was thronged with oxen, sheep, and horses, and with 
those who wished to see, to sell, or to buy. The squires were 
all together in a cluster at the police-house ; the owners of the 
horses rode up and down, showing the best paces of their 
brutes : among whom 3'ou might see Paddy, in his ragged 
frieze-coat, seated on his donkey's bare rump, and proposing 
him for sale. . I think I saw a score of this humble though 
useful breed that were brought for sale to the fair. " I can 
sell him," says one fellow, with a pompous air, " wid his tackle 
or widout." He was looking as grave over the negotiation as 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 235 

if it had been for a thousand pounds. Besides the donke3^s, of 
course there was plenty of poultr}^ and there were pigs without 
number, shrieking and struggling and pushing hither and 
thither among the crowd, rebellious to the straw-rope. It was 
a fine thing to see one huge grunter and the manner in which 
he was landed into a cart. The cart was let down on an easy 
inclined plane to tempt him : two men ascending, urged him by 
the forelegs, other two entreated him by the tail. At length, 
when more than half of his body had been coaxed upon the cart, 
it was suddenly whisked up, causing the animal thereby to fall 
forward ; a parting shove sent him altogether into the cart ; 
the two gentlemen inside jumped out, and the monster was left 
to ride home. 

The farmers, as usual, were talking of the tariff, predicting 
ruin to tliemselves, as farmers will, on account of the decreasing 
price of stock and the consequent fall of grain. Perhaps the 
person most to be pitied is the poor pig-proprietor yonder : it is 
his rent which he is carrying through the market squealving at the 
end of the straw-rope, and Sir Robert's bill adds insolvency to 
that poor fellow's misery. 

This was the last of the sights which the kind owner of 

H town had invited me into his country to see ; and I think 

they were among the most pleasing I witnessed in Ireland. 
Rich and poor were working friendlil}^ together ; priest and 
parson were alike interested in these honest, homely, agricul- 
tural festivals ; not a word was said about hereditary bondage 
and English tyranny ; and one did not much regret the absence 
of those patriotic topics of conversation. If but for the sake 
of the change, it was pleasant to pass a few days with people 
among whom there was no quarelling : no furious denunciations 
against Poper}- on the part of the Protestants, and no tirades 
against the parsons from their bitter and scornful opponents of 
the other creed. 

Next Sunday, in the county Meath, in a quiet old church 
lying amongst meadows and fine old stately avenues of trees, 
and for the benefit of a congregation of some thirty persons, 
I heard for the space of an hour and twent}' minutes some 
thorough Protestant doctrine, and the Popish superstitions 
properly belabored. Does it strengthen a man in his own 
creed to hear his neighbor's belief abused ? One would imagine 
so : for though abuse converts nobody, yet many of our pastors 
think they are not doing their dut}^ by their own fold unless 
they fling stones at the flock in the next field, and have, 
for the honor of the service, a match at cudgelling with 



236 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

the shepherd. Our shepherd to-day was of this pugnacious 
sort. 

The Meath landscape, if not varied and picturesque, is ex- 
tremel}^ rich and pleasant ; and we took some drives along the 
banks of the Bo^^ne — to the noble park of Slane (still sacred to 
the memory of George IV., who actually condescended to pass 
some days there), and to Trim — of which the name occurs so 
often in Swift's Journals, and where stands an enormous old 
castle that was inhabited by Prince John. It was taken from 
him by an Irisli chief, our guide said ; and from the Irish chief 
it was taken b}' Oliver Cromwell. O'Thuselah was the Irish 
chiefs name no doubt. 

Here too stands, in the midst of one of the most wretched 
towns in Ireland, a pillar erected in honor of the Duke of Wel- 
lington b}^ the gentry of his native county. His birthplace, 
Dangan, lies not far off. And as we saw the hero's statue, a 
flight of birds had hovered about it : there was one on each 
epaulette and two on his marshal's staff. Besides these won- 
ders, we saw a certain number of beggars ; and a madman, 
who was walking round a mound and preaching a sermon on 
grace ; and a little child's funeral came passing through the 
dismal town, the only stirring thing in it (the coffin was laid on 
a one-horse country car — a little deal box, in which the poor 
child la}^ — and a great troop of people followed the humble 
procession) ; and the inn-keeper, who had caught a few stray 
gentlefolk in a town where travellers must be rare ; and in his 
inn — which is more gaunt and miserable than the town itself, 
and which is by no means rendered more cheerful because sun- 
dry theologicaf works are left for the rare frequenters in the 
coffee-room — the inn-keeper brought in a bill which would 
have been worthy of Long's, and which was paid with much 
grumbling on both sides. 

It would not be a bad rule for the traveller in Ireland to 
avoid those inns where theological works are left in the coffee- 
room. He is pretty sure to be made to pay very dearly for 
these religious privileges. 

We waited for the coach at the beautiful lodge and gate of 
Annsbrook ; and one of the sons of the house coming up, 
invited us to look at the domain, which is as pretty and neatly 
ordered as — as any in England. It is hard to use this com- 
parison so often, and must make Irish hearers angry. Can't 
one see a neat house and grounds without instantly thinking 
that they are worthy of the sister countr}^ ; and implying, in our 
cool way, its superiority to everywhere else? Walking in this 



THE IKISH SKETCH BOOK. 237 

gentleman's gi'ounds, I told him, in the simplicity of mj^ heart, 
that the neighboring country was like Warwickshire, and the 
grounds as good as any English park. Is it the fact that Eng- 
lish grounds are superior, or only that Englishmen are disposed 
to consider them so ? 

A prett}^ little twining riA'er, called the Nannj^'s Water, runs 
through the park : there is a legend about that, as about other 
places. Once upon a time (ten thousand years ago), Saint 
Patrick being thirst}' as he passed by this country, came to the 
house of an old woman, of whom he asked a drink of milk. 
The old woman brought it to his reverence with the best of 
welcomes, and .... here it is a great mercy that the Belfast 
mail comes up, whereby the reader is spared the rest of the 
history. 

The Belfast mail had only to carry us five miles to Drogheda, 
but, in revenge, it made us pay three shillings for the five miles ; 
and again, by way of compensation, it carried us over five miles 
of a country that was worth at least five shillings to see — not 
romantic or especially beautiful, but having the best of all 
beauty — a quiet, smiling, prosperous, unassuming work-day 
look, that in views and landscapes most good judges admire. 
Hard by Nanny's Water, we came to Duleek Bridge, where, I 
was told, stands an old residence of the De Dath family, who 
were, moreover, builders of the picturesque old bridge. 

The road leads over a wide green common, which puts one 
in mind of Eng — (a plague on it, there is the comparison 
again ! ) , and at the end of the common lies the village among 
trees : a beautiful and peaceful sight. In the background there 
was a tall ivy-covered old tower, looking noble and imposing, 
but a ruin and useless ; then there was a church, and next to 
it a chapel — the very same sun was shining upon both. The 
chapel and church were connected by a farm-3'ard, and a score 
of golden ricks were in the background, the churches in unison, 
and the people (typified by the corn-ricks) flourishing at the 
feet of both. Ma}- one ever hope to see the day in Ireland 
when this little landscape allegory shall find a general appli- 
cation ? 

For some wa^- after leaving Duleek the road and the country 
round continued to wear the agreeable, cheerful look just now 
lauded. You pass by a house where James II. is said to have 
slept the night before the battle of the Boyne (he took care to 
sleep far enough oflT on the night after), and also by an old red- 
brick hall standing at the end of an old chace or terrace-avenue, 
that runs for about a mile down to the house, and finishes at a 



238 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

moat towards the road. But as the coach arrives near Drogheda, 
and in the boulevards of that town, all resemblance to England 
is lost. Up hill and down, we pass low rows of filthy cabins in 
dirty undulations. Parents are at the cabin-doors dressing the 
hair of ragged children ; shock-heads of girls peer out from the 
black circumference of smoke, and children inconceivably filthy 
yell wikll^' and vociferously as the coach passes b}^ One little 
ragged savage rushed furiously up the liill, speculating upon 
permission to put on the drag-chain at descending, and ho[)ing 
for a halfpenny reward. He put on the chain, but the guard 
did not give a halfpennj^ I flung him one, and the boy rushed 
wildly after the carriage, holding it up with jo}-. "The man 
inside has given me one," says he, holding it up exultingly to 
the guard. I flung out another (by-the-by, and without any 
prejudice, the halfpence in Ireland are smaller than those of 
England), but when the child got this halfpenny, small as it 
was, it seemed to overpower him : the little man's look of 
gratitude was worth a great deal more than the biggest penn}- 
ever struck. 

The town itself, which I had three-quarters of an hour to 
ramble through, is smok}^, dirt}^, and lively. There was a great 
biislie in the black Main Street, and several good shops, though 
some of the houses were in a half state of ruin, and battered 
shutters closed many of the windows where formerl}^ had been 
" emporiums," "repositories," and other grandl3^-titled abodes 
of small commerce. Exhortations to " repeal" were liberally 
plastered on the blackened walls, proclaiming some past or 
promised visit of the " great agitator." From the bridge is a 
good bustling spectacle of the river and the craft ; the quays 
were grim}' with the discharge of the coal-vessels that lay along- 
side them ; the warehouses were not less black ; the seamen 
and porters loitering on the quay were as swarth}^ as those of 
Puddlcdock ; numerous factories and chimneys were vomiting 
huge clouds of black smoke : the commerce of the town is stated 
by the Gnide-book to be considerable, and increasing of late 
years. Of one part of its manufactures every traveller must 
speak with gratitude — of the ale namely, which is as good as 
the best brewed in the sister kingdom. Drogheda ale is to be 
drunk all over Ireland in the bottled state : candor calls for the 
acknowledgment that it is equall}^ praiseworthy in draught. 
And while satisfying himself of this fact, the philosophic observer 
cannot but ask why ale should not be as good elsewhere as at 
Drogheda : is the water of the Boyne the only water in Ireland 
whereof ale can be made ? 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 239 

Above the river and craft, and the smokj qiiaj's of the town, 
the hills rise abruptl}^ up which innumerable cabins clamber. 
On one of them, by 'a church, is a round tower, or fort, with a 
flag : the church is the successor of one battered down b}' 
Cromwell in 1649, in his frightful siege of the place. The place 
of one of his batteries is still marked outside the town, and 
known as "Cromwell's Mount:" here he "made the breach 
assaultable, and, by the help of God, stormed it." He chose 
the strongest point of the defence for his attack. 

After being twice beaten back, by the divine assistance he 
was enabled to succeed in a third assault : he " knocked on the 
head " all the officers of the garrison ; he gave orders that none 
of the men should be spared. " I think," says he, " that night 
we put to the sword two thousand men ; and one hundred of 
them having taken possession of St. Peter's steeple and a round 
tower next the gate, called St. Sundaj-'s, I ordered the steeple 
of St. Peter's to be fired, when one in the flames was heard to 
say, ' God confound me, I burn, I burn ! ' " The Lord Gen- 
eral's history of ' ' this great mercy vouchsafed to us " concludes 
with appropriate rehgious reflections : and prays Mr. Speaker 
of the House of Commons to remember that "it is good that 
God alone have all the glory." Is not the recollection of this 
butchery almost enough to make an Irishman turn rebel ? 

When troops marched over the bridge, a young friend of 
mine (whom I shrewdly suspected to be an Orangeman in his 
heart) told me that their bands played the " Boyne Water." 
Here is another legend of defeat for the Irishman to muse upon ; 
and here it was, too, that King Richard II. received the homage 
of four Irish kings, who flung their skenes or daggers at his feet 
and knelt to him, and were wonder-stricken by the riches of 
his tents and the garments of his knights and ladies. I think 
it is in Lingard that the story is told ; and the antiquarian has 
no doubt seen that beautiful old manuscript at the British 
Museum where these 3^ellow-mantled warriors are seen riding 
down to the King, splendid in his forked beard, and peaked 
shoes, and long dangling scolloped sleeves and embroidered 
gown. 

The Boyne winds picturesquel}' round two sides of the town , 
and following it, we came to the Linen Hall, — in the days of 
the hnen manufacture a place of note, now the place where Mr. 
O'Connell harangues the people ; but all the windows of the 
house were barricaded when we passed it, and of linen or any 
other sort of merchandise there seemed to be none. Three boys 
were running past it with a mouse tied to a string and a dog 



240 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

galloping after ; two little children were paddling down tlis 
street, one sa3'ing to the other, '-'•Once I had a halfpenny, and 
bought apples with it." The barges were Ij'ing lazily on the 
river, on the opposite side of, whith was a wood of a gen- 
tleman's domain, over which the rooks were cawing ; and 
by the shore were some ruins — ' ' where Mr. Ball once had 
his kennel of hounds " — touching reminiscence of former 
prosperity ! 

There is a very large and ugly Roman Catholic chapel in 
the town, and a smaller one of better construction : it was so 
crowded, however, although on a week-day, that we could not 
pass beyond the chapel-yard — where were great crowds of 
people, some praying, some talking, some buying and selling. 
There were two or three stalls in the j^ard, such as one sees 
near continental churches, presided over b}- old women, with a 
store of little brass crucifixes, beads, books, and benitiers for 
the faithful to purchase. The church is large and commodious 
within, and looks (not like all other churches in Ireland) as if 
it were frequented. There is a hideous stone monument in the 
church^'ard representing two corpses half rotted away : time or 
neglect had battered away the inscription, nor could we see the 
dates of some older tombstones in the ground, which were 
mouldering away in the midst of nettles and rank grass on the 
wall. 

By a large public school of some reputation, where a hundred 
boys were ediUMfced (my young guide the Orangeman was one 
of them : he rv^lated with much glee how, on one of the Libera- 
tor's visits, a schoolfellow had waved a blue and orange flag 
from the window and cried, " King William for ever, and to 
hell with the Pope ! "), there is a fine old gate leading to the 
river, and in excellent preservation, in spite of time and Oliver 
Cromwell. It is a good specimen of Irish architecture. By 
this time that exceedingl}^ slow coach the " Newry Lark" 
had arrived at that exceedingly filthy inn where the mail had 
dropped us an hour before. An enormous Englishman was 
holding a vain combat of wit with a brawn}^, grinning beggar- 
woman at the door. "There's a clever gentleman," saj's the 
beggar-woman. "Sure he'll give me something." "How 
much should you like?" sa^'s the Englishman, with playful 
jocularit3^ " Musha," saj's she, " many a littler man nor you 
has given me a shilling." The coach drives away ; the lady 
had clearly the best of the joking-match ; but I did not see, for 
all that, that the Englishman gave her a single farthing. 

From Castle Bellingham — as famous for ale as Drogheda, 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 241 

and remarkable likewise for a still better thing than ale, an ex- 
cellent resident proprietress, whose fine park lies b}^ the road, 
and by whose care and taste the Adllage has been rendered one 
of the most neat and elegant I have yet seen in Ireland — the 
road to Dundalk is exceedingly picturesque, and the traveller 
has the pleasure of feasting his e^es with the noble line of 
Mourne Mountains, which rise before him while he journej^s 
over a level countr}' for several miles. The " Newr}' Lark," 
to be sure, disdained to take advantage of the eas}' roads to 
accelerate its movements in an}- v^ay ; but the aspect of the 
country is so pleasant that one can afford to loiter over it. 
The fields w^ere yellow with the stubble of the corn — which in 
this, one of the chief corn counties of Ireland, had just been 
cut down ; and a long straggling line of neat farm-houses and 
cottages runs almost the whole wa}^ from Castle Belhngham to 
Dundalk. For nearty a couple of miles of the distance, the 
road runs along the picturesque flat called Lurgan Green ; and 
gentlemen's residences and parks are numerous along the road, 
and one seems to have come amongst a new race of people, so 
trim are the cottages, so neat the gates and hedges, in this 
peaceful, smiling district. The people, too, show signs of the 
general prosperity. A national school has just dismissed its 
female scholars as we pass through Dunlar ; and though the 
children had most of them bare feet, their clothes were good 
and clean, their faces ros}'- and bright, and their long hair as 
shiny and as nicely combed as young ladies' need to be. Nu- 
merous old castles and towers stand on the road here and there ; 
and long before we entered Dundalk we had a sight of a huge 
factory-chimney in the town, and of the dazzling white walls of 
the Roman Catholic church latel}^ erected there. The cabin- 
suburb is not great, and the entrance to the town is much 
adorned by the hospital — a handsome Elizabethan building — 
and a row of houses of a similar architectural style which lie 
on the left of the traveller. 



242 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

DUNDALK. 

The stranger can't fail to be struck with the look of Dundalk, 
as he has been with the villages and country leading to it, when 
contrasted with places in the South and West of Ireland. The 
coach stopped at a cheerful-looking Place^ of which almost the 
onl}^ dilapidated mansion was the old inn at which it discharged 
us, and which did not hold out much prospect of comfort. But 
in justice to the '^King's Arms" it must be said that good 
beds and dinners are to be obtained there by V03^agers ; and if 
they choose to arrive on days when his Grace the Most Rever- 
end the Lord Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of Ireland, 
is dining with his clergy, the house of course is crowded, and 
the waiters, and the boy who carries in the potatoes, a little 
hurried and flustered. When their reverences were gone, the 
laity were served ; and I have no doubt, from the leg of a duck 
which I got, that the breast and wings must have been very- 
tender. 

Meanwhile the walk was pleasant through the bustling little 
town. A grave old church with a tall copper spire defends 
one end of the Main Street ; and a little wa}^ from the inn 
is the superb new chapel, which the architect, Mr. Duff, 
has copied from King's College Chapel in Cambridge. The 
ornamental part of the interior is not yet completed ; but the 
area of the chapel is spacious and noble, and three handsome 
altars of scagliola (or some composition resembling marble) 
have been erected, of handsome and suitable form. When by 
the aid of further subscriptions the church shajl be completed, 
it will be one of the handsomest places of worship the Roman 
Catholics possess in this country. Opposite the chapel stands 
a neat low black building — the gaol : in the middle of the 
building, and over the doorway, is an ominous balcony and 
window, with an iron beam overhead. Each end of the beam 
is ornamented with a grinning iron skull ! Is this the hanging- 
place ? and do these grinning cast-iron skulls facetiousl}^ explain 
the business for which the beam is there? For shame! for 
shame ! Such disgusting emblems ought no longer to dis- 
grace a Christian land. If kill we must, let us do so with 
as much despatch and decency as possible, — not brazen 



THi: IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 243 

out our misdeeds and perpetuate them in this frightful satiric 
way. 

A far better cast-iron emblem stands over a handsome shop 
in the " Place " hard by — a plough namely, which figures over 
the factor}^ of Mr. Shekelton, whose industry' and skill seem to 
have brought the greatest benefit to his fellow-townsmen — of 
whom he employs numbers in his foundries and workshops. 
This gentleman was kind enough to show me through his man- 
ufactories, where all sorts of iron-works are made, from a steam- 
engine to a door-key ; and I saw everything to admire, and a 
vast deal more than I could understand, in the busy, cheerful, 
orderly, bustling, clanging place. Steam-boilers were ham- 
mered here, and pins made by a hundred busy hands in a man- 
ufactory above. There was the engine-room, where the monster 
was whirring his ceaseless wheels and directing the whole 
operations of the factory, fanning the forges, turning the drills, 
blasting into the pipes of the smelting-houses : he had a house 
to himself, from which his orders issued to the diflferent estab- 
lishments round about. One machine was quite awful to me, 
a gentle cockne}^ not used to such things : it was an iron- 
devourer, a wretch with huge jaws and a narrow mouth, ever 
opening and shutting — opening and shutting. You put a 
half-inch iron plate between his jaws, and the}^ shut not a 
whit slower or quicker than before, and bit through the iron as 
if it were a sheet of paper. Below the monster's mouth was a 
punch that performed its duties with similar dreadful calmness, 
going on its rising and falling. 

I was so luck}^ as to have an introduction to the Vicar of 
Dundalk, which that gentleman's kind and generous nature 
interpreted into a claim for unlimited hospitality ; and he was 
good enough to consider himself bound not only to receive me, 
but to give up previous engagements abroad in order to do so. 
I need not say that it afforded me sincere pleasure to witness, 
for a couple of days, his labors among his people ; and indeed 
it was a delightful occupation to watch both fliock and pastor. 
The world is a wicked, selfish, abominable place, as the parson 
tells us ; but his reverence comes out of his pulpit and gives 
the flattest contradiction to his doctrine : busying himself with 
kind actions from morning till night, denj'ing to himself, gen- 
erous to others, preaching the truth to 3'oung and old, clothing 
the naked, feeding the hungry, consoling the wretched, and 
giving hope to the sick ; — and I do not mean to say that this 
sort of life is led b}^ the Vicar of Dundalk merely, but do firmly 
believe that it is the life of the great majority of the Protestant 



244 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOlv. 

and Koman Catholic clergy of the country. There will be no 
breach of confidence, I hope, in publishing here the journal of a 
couple of days spent with one of these reverend gentlemen, and 
telling some readers, as idle and profitless as the writer, what 
the clergyman's peaceful labors are. 

In the first place, we set out to visit the church — the com- 
fortable copper-spired old edifice that was noticed two pages 
back. It stands in a green churchyard of its own, very neat 
and trimly kept, with an old rovf of trees that were dropping 
their red leaves upon a flock of vaults and tombstones below. 
The building being much injured by flame and time, some 
hundred years back was repaired, enlarged, and ornamented — 
as churches in those days were ornamented — and has conse- 
quently lost a good deal of its Gothic character. There is a 
great mixture, therefore, of old style and new style and no 
style : but, with all this, the church is one of the most commo- 
dious and best appointed I have seen in Ireland. The vicar 
held a council with a builder regarding some ornaments for the 
roof of the church, which is, as it should be, a great object of 
bis care and architectural taste, and on which he has spent a 
very large sum of money. To these expenses he is in a manner 
bound, for the living is a considerable one, its income being no 
less than two hundred and fifty pounds a j^ear ; out of which 
he has merel}' to maintain a couple of curates and a clerk and 
sexton, to contribute largely towards schools and hospitals, 
and relieve a few scores of pensioners of his own, who are 
fitting objects of private bounty. 

We went from the church to a school, which has been long 
a favorite resort of the good vicar's : indeed, to judge from the 
schoolmaster's books, his attendance there is almost daity, and 
the number of the scholars some two hundred. The number 
was considerably greater until the schools of the Educational 
Board were established, when the Roman Catholic clergj^men 
withdrew many of their young people from Mr. Thackera3''s 
establishment. 

We found a large room with sixty or seventy boys at work ; 
in an upper chamber were a considerable number of girls, with 
their teachers, two modest and pretty young women ; but the 
favorite resort of the vicar was evidentl3' the Infant- School, — 
and no wonder : it is impossible to witness a more beautiful or 
touching sight. 

Eighty of these little people, health}^, clean, and rosy — 
some in smart gowns and shoes and stockings, some with 
patched pinafores and Uttle bare pink feet — sat upon a half- 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 245 

dozen low benches, and were singing, at the top of their four- 
score fresh voices, a song when we entered. All the voices 
were hushed as the vicar came in, and a great bobbing and 
curts3'ing took place ; whilst a hundred and sixty innocent 
eyes turned awfully towards the clergyman, who tried to look 
as unconcerned as possible, and began to make his little ones a 
speech. " I have brought," says he, '' a gentleman from Eng- 
land, who has heard of my little children and their school, and 
hopes he will carry awa}^ a good account of it. Now, 3'ou 
know, we must all do our best to be kind and civil to strangers : 
what can we do here for this gentleman that he would like ? — 
do you think he would like a song ? " 

(All the children.) — " We'll sing to him ! " 

Then the schoolmistress, coming forward, sang the first 
words of a h3'mn, which at once eighty little voices took up, or 
near eight}' — for some of the little things were too j'oung to 
sing yet, and all they could do was to beat the measure with 
little red hands as the others sang. It was a hymn about 
heaven, with a chorus of " Oh that will be joyful, joyful," and 
one of the verses beginning, "Little children will be there." 
Some of my fair readers (if. I have the honor to find such) who 
have been present at similar tender, charming concerts, know 
the h3'mn, no doubt. It was the first time I had ever heard it ; 
and I do not care to own that it brought tears to m}' e3'es, 
though it is ill to parade such kind of sentiment in print. But 
I think I will never, while I live, forget that little chorus, nor 
would au}^ man who has ever loved a chikl or lost one. God 
bless 3"ou, little happy singers ! What a noble and useful 
life is his, who, in place of seeking wealth or honor, devotes 
his life to such a service as this ! And all through our countr3', 
thank God ! in quiet humble corners, that bus3' citizens and 
men of the world never hear of, there are thousands of such 
men employed in such hoi}' pursuits, with no reward beyond 
that which the fulfilment of duty brings them. Most of these 
children were Roman Catholics. At this tender age the priests 
do not care to separate them from their little Protestant brethren : 
and no wonder. He must be a child-murdering Herod who 
would find the heart to do so. 

After the hymn, the children went through a little Scripture 
catechism, answering ver3' correctl3', and all in a breath, as the 
mistress put the questions. Some of them were, of course, too 
young to understand the words the3' uttered ; but the answers 
are so simple that they cannot fail to understand them before 
long ; and they learn in spite of themselves. 



246 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

The catechism being ended, another song was sung ; and 
now the vicar (who had been humming the chorus along with 
his young singers, and, in spite of an awful and grave counte- 
nance, could not help showing his extreme happiness) made 
another oration, in which he stated that the gentleman from 
England was perfectly satisfied ; that he would have a good 
report of the Dundalk children to csiny home with him ; that 
the da}' was very fine, and the schoolmistress would probably 
like to take a walk ; and, finall}^, would the young people give 
her a holidaj^? "As mau}^," concluded he, "as will give the 
schoolmistress a holida}^, hold up their hands ! " This question 
was carried unanimoush\ 

But I am bound to say, when the little people were told that 
as mau}^ as wouldn't like a holiday were to hold up their hands, 
all the little hands went up again exactl}^ as before : by which 
it ma}' be concluded either that the infants did not understand 
his reverence's speech, or that they were just as happy to stay 
at school as to go and play ; and the reader ma}' adopt which- 
ever of the reasons he inclines to. It is probable that both 
are correct. 

The little things are so fond of the school, the vicar told me 
as we walked away from it, that on returning home they like 
nothing better than to get a number of their companions who 
don't go to school, and to play at infant-school. 

They may be heard singing their hymns in the narrow alleys 
and humble houses in which they dwell : and I was told of one 
dying who sang his song of " Oh that will be joyful, joyful," to 
his poor mother weeping at his bedside, and promising her that 
they should meet where no parting should be. 

"There was a child in the school," said the vicar, "whose 
father, a Roman Catholic, was a carpenter by trade, a good 
workman, and earning a considerable weekly sum, but neglect- 
ing his wife and children and spending his earnings in drink. 
We have a song against drunkenness that the infants sing ; and 
one evening, going home, the child found her father excited 
with liquor and ill-treating his wife. The little thing forthwith 
interposed between them, told her father what she had heaid 
at school regarding the criminality of drunkenness and quarrel- 
ling, and finished her little sermon with the li}'mn. The father 
was first amused, then touched ; and the end of it was that he 
kissed his wife and asked her to forgive him, hugged his child, 
and from that day would always have her in his bed, made her 
sing to him morning and night, and forsook his old haunts for 
the sake of his little companion." 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 247 

He was quite sober and prosperous for eight months ; but 
the vicar at tlie end of that time began to remark that the child 
looked ragged at school, and passing b}^ her mother's house, 
saw the poor woman with a black evQ. ' • If it was an}' one but 

3'our husband, Mrs. C , who gave 3^ou that black e^'e," sa3'S 

the vicar, •' tell me ; but if he did it, don't sa}^ a word." The 
woman was silent, and soon after, meeting her husband, the 
Aicar took him to task. "You were sober for eight months. 

Now tell me fairly, C ," SB,ys he, " were 3'ou happier when 

3'ou lived at home with your wife and child, or are 3'Ou more 
happ3' now?" The man owned that he was much happier 
formerh', and the end of the conversation was that he promised 
to go home once more and tr3" the sober life again, and he went 
home and succeeded. 

The vicar continued to hear good accounts of him ; but 
passing one da3' by his house he saw the wife there looking 
ver3^ sad. "Had her husband relapsed?" — "No, he was 
dead," she said — " dead of the cholera ; but he had been sober 
ever since his last conversation with the clergyman, and had 
done his dut3" to his famil3^ up to the time of his death." " I 
said to the woman," said the good old clergyman, in a grave 
low voice, " 'Your husband is gone now to the place where, 
according to his conduct here, his eternal reward will be as- 
signed him ; and let us be thankful to think what a different 
position he occupies now to that which he must have held had 
not his little girl been the means under God of converting 
him.' " 

Our next walk was to the County Hospital, the handsome 
edifice which ornaments the Drogheda entrance of the town, 
and which I had remarked on my arrival. Concerning this 
hospital, the governors were, when I passed through Dundalk, 
in a state of no small agitation : for a gentleman by the name 

of , who, from being an apothecary's assistant in the place, 

had gone forth as a sort of amateur inspector of hospitals 
throughout Ireland, had thought fit to censure their extrava- 
gance in erecting the new building, stating that the old one was 
fully sufficient to hold fifty patients, and that the public mone3^ 

might consequently have been spared. Mr. 's plan for the 

better maintenance of them in general is, that commissioners 
should be appointed to direct them, and not county gentlemen 
as heretofore ; the discussion of which question does not need 
to be carried on in this humble work. 

My guide, who is one of the governors of the new hospital, 
conducted me in the first place to the old one — a small dirty 



248 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

house in a clamp and low situation, with but three rooms to 
accommodate patients, and these evidentl}' not fit to hold fift}', 
or even fifteen patients. The new hospital is one of the hand- 
somest buildings of the size and kind in Ireland — an ornament 
to the town, as the angr}^ commissioner stated, but not after all 
a building of undue cost, for the expense of its erection was but 
3,000/. ; and the sick of the county are far better accommodated 
in it than in the damp and unwholesome tenement regretted b}' 
the eccentric commissioner. 

An English architect, Mr. Smith of Hertford, designed and 
completed the edifice ; strange to sa}", onh^ exceeding his esti- 
mates by the sum of three-and-sixpence, as the worth}^ governor 
of the hospital with great triumph told me. The building is 
certainl}' a wonder of cheapness, and, what is more, so com- 
plete for the purpose for which it was intended, and so hand- 
some in appearance, that the architect's name deserves to be 
published by all who hear it ; and if any countrj'-newspaper 
editors should notice this volume, they are requested to make 
the fact known. The house is provided with ever}^ convenience 
for men and women, with all the appurtenances of baths, water, 
gas, airy wards, and a garden for convalescents ; and, below, 
a dispensary', a handsome board-room, kitchen, and matron's 
apartments, &c. Indeed, a noble requiring a house for a large 
establishment need not desire a handsomer one than this, at its 
moderate price of 3,000/. The beaut^^ of this building has, as 
is almost alwa3-s the case, created emulation, and a terrace 
in the same taste has been raised in the neighborhood of the 
hospital. 

From the hospital we bent our steps to the Institution ; of 
which place I give below the rules, and a copy of the course 
of stud}', and the dietarj' : leaving English parents to consider 
the fact, that their children can be educated at this place for 
thirteen 'pounds a year. Nor is there anything in the establish- 
ment savoring of the Dothebojs Hall.* I never saw, in any 

* " Boarders are received from the age of eight to fourteen at 12/. per 
annum, and \l. for vvashmg, paid quarterly in advance. 

'' Day scholars are received from the age of ten to twelve at 11., paid 
quarterly in advance. 

" The Incorporated Society have abundant cause for believing that the 
introduction of Boarders into their Establishments hap produced far more 
advantageous results to the public than they could, at so early a period, 
have anticipated ; and that the election of boys to their Foundations o«/y 
after a fair competition with others of a given district, has had the effect 
of stimulating masters and scholars to exertion and study, and promises to 
operate most beneficially for the advancement of religious and general 
knowledge. 



THE IRISH SlvETCH BOOK. 



249 



public school in England, sixty cleaner, smarter, more gentle- 
manlike boys than were here at work. The upper class had 
been at work on Euclid as we came in, and were set, by way 

" The districts for eligible Candidates are as follow : — 

" Dundalk Institution embraces the counties of Louth and Down, be- 
cause the properties which support it lie in this district. 

" The Pococke Institution, Kilkenny, embraces the counties of Kilkenny 
and Waterford, for the same cause. 

" The Ranelagh Institution, the towns of Athlone and Roscommon, and 
three districts in the counties of Galway and Roscommon, which the In- 
corporated Society hold in fee, or from which they receive impropriate 
tithes. 

{Signed) " CiESAR Otway, Secretary." 



Arrangement of School Business in Dundalk Institution. 



Hours. 



Monday, Wednesday, 
and Friday. 



Tuesday and Thursday. 



Saturday. 



7^" 

^^:: 

10 " 
10^" 

Hi'' 
12 " 

12| " 

2 " 

2J" 



7 
7^ 

f 
10 
10^ 
Hi 
12 
12| 

2 

f 

8 
8i 



8i 



Rise, wash, &c. 
Scripture by the Mas- 
ter, and prayer. 
Reading, History, &c. 
Breakfast. 
Play. 

English Grammar. 
Algebra. 

Scripture. 

Writing. 

Arithmetic at Desks, 
and Book-keeping. 

Dinner. 

Play. 

Spelling, Mental Arith- 
metic, and Euclid. 

Supper. 

Exercise. 

Scripture by the Mas- 
ter, and prayer in 
School-room. 

Retire to bed. 



Rise, wash, &c. 

Scripture by the Mas- 
ter, and prayer. 

Reading, History, &c. 

Breakfast. 

Play. 

Geography. 

Euclid. 

Lecture on principles 
of Arithmetic. 

Writing. 

Mensuration. 

Dinner. 
Play. 

Spelling, Mental Arith- 
metic, and Euclid. 

Supper. 

Exercise. 

Scripture by the Mas- 
ter, and prayer in 
School-room. 

Retire to bed. 



Rise, wash, «&:c. 
( Scripture by the Mas- 
\ ter, and prayer. 

Reading, History, &c. 

Breakfast. 

Play. 

10 to 11, Repetition. 

11 to 12, Use of Globes. 

12 to 1, Catechism and 
Scripture by the 
Catechist. 

Dinner. 

'The remainder of this 
day is devoted to ex- 
ercise till the hour of 
Supper, after which 
the Boys assemble in 
the School-rooin and 
hear a portion of 
Scripture read and 
explained by the Mas- 
ter, as on other days, 
and conclude with 
prayer. 



The sciences of Navigation and practical Surveying are taught in the Establishment, also 
a selection of the Pupils, who have a taste for it, are instructed in the art of Drawing. 



Dietary. 



Breakfast. — Stirabout and Milk, every Morning. 

DiN.VER. — On Sunday and Wednesday, Potatoes and Beef; 10 ounces of the latter to 
each boy. On Monday and Thursday, Bread and Broth ; Alb. of the former to each boy. 
On Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday, Potatoes and Milk ; 21bs. of the former to each boy. 

Supper. — ^Ib. of Bread with Milk, uniformly, except on Monday and Thursday: on 
these days. Potatoes and Milk. 



250 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

of amusing the stranger, to perform a sum of compound inter- 
est of diabolical complication, which, with its algebraic and 
arithmetic solution, was handed up to me b}- three or four of 
the pupils ; and 1 strove to look as wise as I possibl}^ could. 
Then they went through questions of mental arithmetic with 
astonishing correctness and facilit}^ ; and finding from the 
master that classics were not taught in the school, I took oc- 
casion to lament this circumstance, sa3ing, with a knowing air, 
that I would like to have examined the lads in a Greek pla}- . 

Classics, then, these 3'oung fellows do not get. Meat they 
get but twice a week. Let English parents bear this fact in 
mind ; but that the lads are health}^ and happ}-, anybody who 
sees them can have no question ; furthermore, they are well 
instructed in a sound practical education — liistor}', geograph}', 
mathematics, religion. What a place to know of would this 
be for manv a poor half-pay officer, where he may put his chil- 
dren in all confidence that the}- will be well cared for and 
soundly educated ! Why have we not State schools in Eng- 
land, where, for the prime cost — for a sum which never need 
exceed for a 3'oung boy's maintenance 25/. a year — our chil- 
dren might be brought up? We are establishing national 
schools for the laborer : wh}" not give education to the sons of 
the poor gentry — the clergyman whose pittance is small, and 
would still give his son the benefit of a public education ; the 
artist, the officer, the merchant's office-clerk, the literary man? 
What a benefit might be conferred upon all of us if honest 
charter-schools could be established for our children, and where 
it would be impossible for Squeers to make a profit ! * 

Our next day's journey led us, b}^ half-past ten o'clock, to 
the ancient town of Louth, a little j^oor village now, but a great 
seat of learning and piety, it is said, formerly, where there 
stood a university and abbeys, and where Saint Patrick worked 
wonders. Here my kind friend the rector was called upon to 
marry a smart sergeant of police to a pretty lass, one of the 
few Protestants who attend his church ; and, the ceremony 
over, we were invited to the house of the bride's father hard 
by, where the clergyman was bound to cut the cake and drink 
a glass of wine to the health of the new-married couple. 

* The Proprietary Schools of late established have gone far to protect 
the interests of parents and children ; but the masters of these schools take 
boarders, and of course draw profits from them. Why make the learned 
man a l>eef-and-mutton contractor ? It would be easy to arrange tlie 
economy of a school so that there should be no possibility of a want of 
confidence, or of peculation, to the detriment of the pupil. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 251 

There was evident!}^ to be a dance and some merriment in 
the course of the evening ; for the good mother of the bride 
(oh, blessed is he who has a good mother-in-law!) was busy 
at a huge fire in the little kitchen, and along the road we met 
various parties of neatlj^-dressed people, and several of the 
sergeant's comrades, who were hastening to the wedding. The 
mistress of the rector's darling Infant-School was one of the 
bridesmaids : consequentl}' the little ones had a holida}^ 

But he was not to be disappointed of his Infant-School in 
this manner: so, mounting the car again, with a fresh horse, 
we went a ver}' prett}' drive of three miles to the snug lone 
school-house of Gl3Tle Farm — near a handsome park, I believe 
of the same name, where the proprietor is building a mansion 
of the Tudor order. 

The prett}' scene of Dundalk was here pla3'ed OA^er again : 
the children sang their little h^'mns, the good old clergj-man 
joined delighted in the chorus, the holiday was given, and the 
little hands held up, and I looked i\i more clean bright faces 
and little ros}' feet. The scene need not be repeated in print, 
but I can understand what pleasure a man must take in the 
daily witnessing of it, and in the growth of these little plants, 
which are set and tended b}" his care. As we returned to 
Louth, a woman met us with a curtsy and expressed her 
sorrow that she had been obliged to wit^idraw her daughter 
from one of the rector's schools, which the child was vexed at 
leaving too. But the orders of the priest were peremptorj^ ; 
and who can say the}^ were unjust? The priest, on his side, 
was only enforcing the rule which the parson maintains as his : 
— the latter will not permit his 3'oung flock to be educated 
except upon certain principles and by certain teachers ; the 
former has his own scruples unfortunately^ also — and so that 
noble and brotherly scheme of National Education falls to the 
ground. In Louth, the national school was standing bj^ the 
side of the priest's chapel : it is so almost everywhere through- 
out Ireland : the Protestants have rejected, on A^er^^ good mo- 
tives doubtless, the chance of ui\ion which the Education Board 
gave them. Be it so ! if the children of either sect be educated 
apart, so that they be educated, the education scheme will have 
produced its good, and the union will come afterwards. 

The church at Louth stands boldl}^ upon a hill looking down 
on the village, and has nothing remarkable in it but neatness, 
except the monument of a former rector. Dr. Little, which 
attracts the spectator's attention from the extreme inappro- 
j^riateness of the motto on the coat-of-arms of the reverend 



252 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

defunct. It looks rather unorthodox to read in a Christian 
temple, where a man's bones have the honor to lie — and 
where, if anywhere, humilitj^ is requisite — that there is multum 
in Parvo : " a great deal in Little." O Little, in life you were 
not much, and lo ! you are less now ; why should filial piety 
engrave that pert pun upon your monument, to cause people 
to laugh in a place where they ought to be grave ? The de- 
funct doctor built a very handsome rector}- -house, with a set 
of stables that would be useful to a nobleman, but are rather 
too commodious for a peaceful rector who does not ride to 
hounds ; and it was in Little's time, I believe, that the church 
was removed from the old abbe}^ where it formerly stood, to 
its present proud position on the hill. 

The abbe}^ is a fine ruin, the windows of a good style, the 
tracings of carvings on many of them ; but a great number of 
stones and ornaments were removed formerly to build farm- 
buildings withal, and the place is now as rank and ruinous as 
the generality of Irish burjing-places seem to be. Skulls lie 
in clusters amongst nettle-beds by the abbey walls ; graves are 
only partially covered with rude stones ; a fresh coffin was lying 
broken in pieces within the abbe}^ ; and the surgeon of the dis- 
pensary hard b}^ might procure subjects here almost without 
grave-breaking. Hard b}^ the abbey is a building of which I 
beg leave to offer the following interesting sketch.* The 
legend in the country goes that the place was built for the 
accommodation of " Saint Murtogh," who Mng down to sleep 
here in the open fields, not having any place to house under, 
found to his surprise, on waking^ in the morning, the above 
edifice, which the angels had built. The angelic architecture, 
it will be seen, is of rather a rude kind ; and the village an- 
tiquary, who takes a pride in showing the place, says that the 
building was erected two thousand years ago. In the hand- 
some grounds of the rectory is another spot visited by popular 
tradition — a fairy's ring: a regular mound of some thirty feet 
in -height, flat and even on the top, and provided with a wind- 
ing path for the foot-passengers to ascend. Some trees grew 
on the mound, one of which was removed in order to make 
the walk. But the country-people cried out loudly at this 
desecration, and vowed that the ' ' little people " had quitted 
the countryside for ever in consequence.- 

While walking in the town, a woman meets the rector with 
a number of curtsies and compliments, and vows that "'tis 
your reverence is the friend of the poor, and may the Lord pre 

* This refers to an illustrated edition of tlie work. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 253 

serve you to us and lady ; " and having poured out blessings 
innumerable, concludes by producing a paper for her son 
that's in throuble in England. The paper ran to the effect that 
"We, the undersigned, inhabitants of the parish of Louth, 
have known Daniel Horgan ever since his youth, and can speak 
confidently as to his integrit}', piety, and good conduct." In 
fact, the paper stated that Daniel Morgan was an honor to his 
country, and consequent!}^ quite incapable of the crime of — 
sack-stealing I think — with which at present he was charged, 
and la_y in prison in Durham Castle. The paper had, I should 
think, come down to the poor mother from Durham, with a 
direction ready written to despatch it back again when signed, 
and was evidently the work of one of those benevolent individu- 
als in assize-towns, who, following the profession of the law, 
delight to extricate unhappy young men of whose innocence 
(from various six-and-eightpenny motives) they feel convinced. 
There stood the poor mother, as the rector examined the docu- 
ment, with a huge wafer in her hand, ready to forward it so 
soon as it was signed: for the truth is that "We, the under- 
signed," were as yet merel}^ imaginary. 

"You don't come to church," sa3's the rector. " I know 
nothing of you or your son : why don't you go to the priest ? " 

" Oh, your reverence, my son's to be tried next Tuesday," 
whimpered the woman. She then said the priest was not in 
the way, but, as we had seen him a few minutes before, recalled 
the assertion, and confessed that she had been to the priest 
and that he would not sign ; and fell to prayers, tears, and 
unbounded supplications to induce the rector to give his sig- 
nature. But that hard-hearted divine, stating that he had not 
known Daniel Horgan from his 3^outh upwards, that he could 
not certify as to his honesty or dishonest}-, enjoined the woman 
to make an attempt upon the R. C. curate, to whose hand- 
writing he would certify if need were. 

The upshot of the matter was that the woman returned with 
a certificate from the R. C. curate as to her son's good behavior 
while in the village, and the rector certified that the hand- 
writing was that of the R. C. clergyman in question, and the 
woman popped her big red wafer into the letter and went her 
way. 

Tuesday is passed long ere this : Mr. Morgan's guilt or 
innocence is long since clearly proved, and he celebrates the 
latter in freedom, or expiates the former at the mill. Indeed, 
I don't know that there was any call to introduce his ad- 
ventures to the public, except perhaps it may be good to see 



254 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

how in this little distant Irish village the blood of life is running. 
Here goes a happ}^ party to a marriage, and the parson prays 
a " God bless you!" upon them, and the world begins for 
them. Yonder lies a stall-fed rector in his tomb, flaunting 
over his nothingness his pompous heraldic motto : and 3'onder 
lie the fresh fragments of a nameless deal coffin, which an}'^ foot 
may kick over. Presently you hear the clear voices of little 
children praising God ; and here comes a mother wringing her 
hands and asking for succor for her lad, who was a child but 
the other day. Such motiis animorum atque hcec certamina tanta 
are going on in an hour of an October day in a little pinch of 
cla}^ in the county Louth. 

Perhaps being in the moralizing strain, the honest surgeon 
at the dispensary mi^ht come in as an illustration. He in- 
habits a neat humble house, a story higher than his neighbors', 
but with a thatched roof. He relieves a thousand patients 
3^early at the dispensar}', he visits seven hundred in the parish, 
he supplies the medicines gratis ; and receiving for these ser- 
vices the sum of about one hundred pounds yearly, some county 
economists and calculators are loud against the extravagance 
of his salary, and threaten his removal. All these individuals 
and their histories we presently turn our backs upon, for, after 
all, dinner is at five o'clock, and we have to see the new road 
to Dundalk, which the county has lately been making. 

Of this undertaking, which shows some skilful engineering 
— some gallant cutting of rocks and hills, and filhng of valle3's, 
with a tall and handsome stone bridge thrown across the river, 
and connecting the high embankments on which the new road 
at that place is formed — I can say little, except that it is a 
vast convenience to the county, and a great credit to the sur- 
veyor and contractor too ; for the latter, though a poor man, 
and losing heavily by his bargain, has yet refused to mulct his 
laborers of their wages ; and, as cheerfully as he can, still pays 
them theu' shilhng a day. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 255 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

NEWRY, ARMAGH, BELFAST — FROM DUNDALK TO NEWRY. 

My kind host gave orders to the small ragged boy that drove 
the car to take " particular care of the little gentleman ; " and 
the car-bo}'', grinning in appreciation of the joke, drove off at 
his best pace, and landed his cargo at Newry after a pleasant 
two hours' drive. The country for the most part is wild, but 
not gloomy ; the mountains round about are adorned with 
woods and gentlemen's seats ; and the car-boy pointed out one 
hill — that of SlieveguUion, which kept us compau}- all the 
way — as the highest hill in Ireland. Ignorant or deceiving 
car-bo}^ ! I have seen a dozen hills, each the highest in Ire- 
land, in m}^ wa}' through the country, of which the inexorable 
Guide-book gives the measurement and destroys the claim. 
Well, it was the tallest hill, in the estimation of the car-bo}^ ; 
and, in this respect, the world is full of car-boj-s. Has not 
every mother of a family a SlieveguUion of a son, who, accord- 
ing to her measurement, towers above all other sons ? Is not 
the patriot, who believes himself equal to three Frenchmen, a 
car-boy in heart? There was a kind young creature, with a 
child in her lap, that evidently held this notion. She paid the 
child a series of compliments, which would have led one to 
fanc}' he was an angel from heaven at the least ; and her hus- 
band sat gravel}^ b}', very silent, with his arms round a bar- 
ometer. 

Beyond these there were no incidents or characters of note, 
except an old hostler that they said was ninety years old, and 
watered the horse at a lone inn on the road. •' Stop ! " cried 
this wonder of years and rags, as the car, after considerable 
parley, got under weigh. The car-boy pulled up, thinking a 
fresh passenger was coming out of the inn. 

" Stop^ till one of the gentlemen gives me something ^^* says the 
old man, coming slowly up with us : which speech created a 
laugh, and got him a penn}' : he received it without the least 
thankfulness, and went awa}' grumbling to his pail. 

Newr}' is remarkable as being the only town I have seen 
which had no cabin suburb : strange to say, the houses begin 
all at once, handsomely coated and hatted with stone and slate ; 
and if Dundalk was prosperous, Newrj- is better still. Such a 



256 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

sight of neatness and comfort is exceedinglj^ welcome to an 
English traveller, who, moreover, finds himself, after driving 
through a plain bustling clean street, landed at a large plain 
comfortable inn, where business seems to be done, where there 
are smart waiters to receive him, and a comfortable warm coffee- 
room that bears no traces of dilapidation. 

What the merits of the cuisine may be I can't say for the 
information of travellers ; a gentleman to whom I had brought 
a letter from Dundalk taking care to provide me at his own 
table, accompanying me previously to visit the lions of the 
town. A river divides it, and the counties of Armagh and 
Down: the river runs into the sea at Carlingford Bay, and is 
connected by a canal with Lough Neagh, and thus with the 
North of Ireland. Steamers to Liverpool and Glasgow sail 
continually. There are mills, foundries, and manufactories, of 
which the Guide-book will give particulars ; and the town of 
13,000 inhabitants is the busiest and most thriving that I have 
3^et seen in Ireland. 

Our first walk was to the church : a large and handsome 
building, although built in the unluck}^ period when the Gothic 
st3'le was coming into vogue. Hence one must question the 
propriet}^ of many of the ornaments, though the whole is mas- 
sive, well-finished, and statel}^ Near the church stands the 
Roman Catholic chapel, a ver}' fine building, the work of the 
same architect, Mr. Duff", who erected the chapel at Dundalk ; 
but, like almost all other edifices of the kind in Ireland that I 
have seen, the interior is quite unfinished, and alread}' so dirty 
and ruinous, that one would think a sort of genius for dilapida- 
tion must have been exercised in order to bring it to its present 
condition. There are tattered green-baize doors to enter at, a 
dirty clay floor, and cracked plaster walls, with an injunction 
to the public not to spit on the floor. Ma3niooth itself is 
scarcel}^ more drearj^ The architect's work, however, does 
him the highest credit : the interior of the church is noble 
and simple in style ; and one can't but grieve to see a fine 
Avork of art, that might have done good to the country, so 
defaced and ruined as this is. 

The Newr}^ poor-house is as neath^ ordered and comfortable 
as any house, public or private, in Ireland : the same look of 
health which was so pleasant to see among the Naas children 
of the union-house was to be remarked here : the same care and 
comfort for the old people. Of able-bodied there were but few 
in the house : it is in winter that there are most applicants for 
this kind of relief; the sunshine attracts the women out of the 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 257 

place, and the harvest relieves it of the men. Cleanliness, the 
matron said, is more intolerable to most of the inmates than 
any other regulation of the house ; and instantty on quitting 
the house the}- relapse into their darling dirt, and of course at 
their periodical return are subject to the unavoidable initiatory 
lustration. 

Newr}- has many comfortable and handsome public build- 
ings : the streets have a business-like look, the shops and 
people are not too poor, and the southern grandiloquence is 
not shown here in the shape of fine words for small w^ares. 
Even the beggars are not so numerous, I fancy, or so coaxing 
and wheedling in their talk. Perhaps, too, among the gentry, 
the same moral change may be remarked, and they seem more 
downright and plain in their manner ; but one must not pretend 
to speak of national characteristic from such a small experience 
as a couple of evenings' intercourse may give. 

Although not equal in natural beauty to a hundred other 
routes which the traveller takes in the South, the ride from 
Newry to Armagh is an extremely pleasant one, on account of 
the undeniable increase of prosperity which is visible through 
the countr}'. Well-tilled fields, neat farm-houses, well-dressed 
people, meet one ever3'where, and people and landscape alike 
have a plain, hearty, flourishing look. 

The greater part of Armagh has the aspect of a good stout 
old English town, although round about the steep on which the 
cathedral stands (the Roman Catholics have taken possession of 
another hill, and are building an opposition cathedral on this 
eminence) there are some decidedly Irish streets, and that 
dismal combination of house and pigsty which is so common in 
Munster and Connaught. 

But the main streets, though not fine, are bustling, substan- 
tial, and prosperous ; .and a fine green has some old trees and 
some good houses, and even handsome statelj- public buildings, 
round about it, that remind one of a comfortable cathedral cit}- 
across the water. 

The cathedral service is more completely performed here than 
in any English town, I think. The church is small, but ex- 
tremel}' neat, fresh and handsome — almost too handsome ; 
covered with spick-and-span gilding and carved- work in the 
style of the thirteenth centur}' : every pew as smart and well- 
cushioned as my lord's own seat in the country church ; and for 
the clergy and their chief, stalls and thrones quite curious for 
their ornament and splendor. The Primate with his blue ribbon 
and badge (to whom the two clergymen bow reverently as, pass- 

17 



258 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

ing between them, he enters at the gate of the altar rail) looks 
like a noble Prince of the Church ; and I had heard enough of 
his magnificent charit}' and kindness to look with reverence at 
his loft}' handsome features. 

Will it be believed that the sermon lasted only for twent}^ 
minutes? Can this be Ireland? I think this wonderful circum- 
stance impressed me more than any other with the difference 
between North and South, and, having the Primate's own coun- 
tenance for the opinion, may confess a great admiration for 
orthodoxy in this particular. 

A beautiful monument to Archbishop Stuart, by Chantrey ; 
a magnificent stained window, containing the arms of the clergy 
of the diocese (in the ver}^ midst of which I was glad to recog- 
nize the sober old family coat of the kind and venerable rector 
of Louth), and numberless carvings and decorations, will please 
the lover of church architecture here. I must confess, how- 
ever, that in m}^ idea the cathedral is quite too complete. It is 
of the twelfth centurj^, but not the least venerable. It is as 
neat and trim as a ladj-'s drawing-room. It wants a hundred 
years at least to cool the raw colors of the stones, and to dull 
the brightness of the gilding : all which benefits, no doubt, time 
will bring to pass, and future Cockneys setting oflf from London 
Bridge after breakfast in an aerial machine maj^ come to hear 
the morning service here, and not remark the faults which have 
struck a too susceptible tourist of the nineteenth century. 

Strolling round the town after service, I saw more decided 
signs that Protestantism was there in the ascendant. I saw no 
less than three different ladies on the prowl, dropping religious 
tracts at various doors ; and felt not a little ashamed to be seen 
by one of them getting into a car with bag and baggage, being 
bound for Belfast. 

* 

The ride of ten miles from Armagh to Portadown was not 
the prettiest, but one of the pleasantest drives I have had in 
Ireland, for the country is well cultivated along the whole of 
the road, the trees in plent}-, and villages and neat houses 
always in sight. The little farms, with their orchards and com- 
fortable buildings, were as clean and trim as could be wished : 
they are mostly of one story, with long thatched roofs and 
shining windows, such as those that may be seen in Normandy 
and Picardy. As it was Sunday evening, all the people seemed 
to be abroad, some sauntering quietl}' down the roads, a pair of 
girls here and there pacing leisurely in a field, a little group 
seated under the trees of an orchard, which pretty adjunct to 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 259 

the farm is very common in this district ; and the crop of apples 
seemed this 3'ear to be extreme!}^ plent3\ The physiognomy of 
the people too has quite changed : the girls have their hair neatly 
braided up, not loose over their faces as in the south ; and not 
only are bare feet very rare, and stockings extremel}^ neat and 
white, but I am sure I saw at least a dozen good silk gowns 
upon the w'omen along the road, and scarcel}^ ona which was not 
clean and in good order. The men for the most part figured in 
jackets, caps, and trousers, eschewing the old well of a hat 
which covers the popular head at the other end of the island, 
the breeches, and the long ill-made tail-coat. The people's 
faces are sharp and neat, not broad, lazy, knowing-looking, like 
that of many a shambling Diogenes who may be seen lounging 
before his cabin in Cork or Kerry. As for the cabins, they 
have disappeared ; and the houses of the people ma}' rank de- 
cidedly as cottages. ^ The accent, too, is quite different ; but 
this is hard to describe in print. The people speak with a 
Scotch twang, and, as I fancied, much more simply and to the 
point. A man gives 3'ou a downright answer, without any grin 
or joke, or attempt at flattery. To be sure, these are rather 
early days to begin to judge of national characteristics ; and 
very likely the above distinctions have been drawn after pro- 
foundl}^ studying a Northern and a Southern waiter at the inn 
at Armagh. 

At an}' rate, it is clear that the towns are vastly improved, 
the cottages and villages no less so ; the people look active and 
well-dressed ; a sort of weight seems all at once to be taken 
from the Englishman's mind on entering the province, when he 
finds himself once more looking upon comfort and activity, and 
resolution. What is the cause of this improvement? Protes- 
tantism is, more than one Church-of-England man said to me ; 
but, for Protestantism, would it not be as well to read Scotch- 
ism ? — meaning thrift, prudence, perseverance, boldness, and 
common-sense : with which qualities any body of men, of any 
Christian denomination, would no doubt prosper. 

The little brisk town of Portadown, with its comfortable 
unpretending houses, its squares and market-place, its pretty 
quay, with craft along the river, — a steamer building on the 
dock, close to mills and warehouses that look in a full state of 
prosperity, — was a pleasant conclusion to this ten miles' drive, 
that ended at the newly opened railway-station. The distance 
hence to Belfast is twenty-five miles ; Lough Neagh may be 
seen at one point of the line, and the Guide-book says that the 
station-towns of Lurgan and Lisburn are extremely picturesque : 



260 THE IRISPI SKETCH BOOK. 

but it was night when I passed b}^ them, and after a journey of 
an hour and a quarter reached Belfast. 

That city has been discovered b}^ another eminent Cockney 
traveller (for though born in America, the dear old Bow-bell 
blood must run in the veins of Mr. N. P. Willis) , and I have 
met, in the periodical works of the countrj', with repeated angry 
allusions to his description of Belfast, the pink heels of the 
chamber-maid who conducted him to bed (what business had he 
to be looking at the 3'oung woman's legs at ail ?) and his wrath 
at the beggaiy of the town and the laziness of the inhabitants, 
as marked b}" a line of dirt running along the walls, and show- 
ing where they were in the habit of lolling. 

These observations struck me as rather hard when applied 
to Belfast, though possibly pink heels and beggary might be re- 
marked in other cities of the kingdom ; but the town of Belfast 
seemed to me really to be as neat, prosperous, and handsome 
a city as need be seen ; and, with respect to the inn, that 
in which I stayed, " Kearn's," was as comfortable' and well- 
ordered an establishment as the most fastidious Cockney can 
desire, and with an advantage which some people perhaps do 
not care for, that the dinners which cost seven shillings at Lon- 
don taverns are here served for half a crown ; but, I must 
repeat here, in justice to the public, what I stated to Mr. Wil- 
liam the waiter, viz. that half a pint of port wine does contain 
more than two glasses — at least it does in happ}^, happ}^ Eng- 
land. . . . Onl}^ to be sure, here the wine is good, whereas the 
port-wine in England is not port, but for the most part an 
abominable drink of which it would be a mercy only to give 
us two glasses : which, however, is clearlj' wandering from the 
subject in hand. 

They call Belfast the Irish Liverpool. If people are for call- 
ing names, it would be better to call it the Irish London .at 
once — the chief city of the kingdom at any rate. It looks 
hearty, thriving, and prosperous, as if it had money in its pockets 
and roast-beef for dinner: it has no pretensions to fashion, but 
looks mayhap better in its honest broadcloth than some people 
in their shabby brocade. The houses are as handsome as at 
Dublin, with this advantage, that the people seem to live in 
them. They have no attempt at ornament for the most part, 
but are grave, stout, red-brick edifices, laid out at four angles 
in orderly streets and squares. 

The stranger cannot fail to be struck (and hapl}^ a little 
frightened) by the great number of meeting-houses that deco- 
rate the town, and give evidence of great sermonizing on Sun- 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 261 

days. These buildings do uot affect the Gothic, like man}^ of 
the meagre edifices of the Established and the Roman Catholic 
churches, but have a physiognomy of their own — a thick-set 
citizen look. Porticos have the}", to be sure, and ornaments 
Doric, Ionic, and what not? but the meeting-house peeps 
through all these classical friezes and entablatures ; and though 
one reads of " Imitations of the Ionic Temple of Ilissus, near 
Athens," the classic temple is made to assume a bluff, down- 
right, Presbyterian air, which would astonish the original builder, 
doubtless. The churches of the Estabhshment are handsome 
and stately. The Catholics are building a brick cathedral, no 
doubt of the Tudor style : — the present chapel, flanked by the 
national schools, is an exceedingl}' unprepossessing building of 
the Strawberr}' Hill or Castle of Otranto Gothic : the keys and 
mitre figuring in the centre — '' The cross-keys and nightcap," 
as a hard-hearted Presbyterian called them to me, with his 
blunt humor. 

The three churches are here pretty equallj^ balanced : Pres- 
byterians 25,000, Catholics 20,000, Episcopalians 17,000. Each 
party has two or more newspaper organs ; and the wars between 
them are dire and unceasing, as the reader may imagine. For 
whereas in other parts of Ireland where Catholics and Episcopa- 
lians prevail, and the Presbyterian bod}" is too small, each party 
has but one opponent to belabor : here the Ulster politician, 
whatever may be his w^ay of thinking, has the great advantage 
of possessing two enemies on whom he may exercise his elo- 
quence ; and in this triangular duel all do their duty nobly. 
Tiien there are subdivisions of hostility. For the Church there 
is a High Church and a Low Church journal ; for the Liberals 
there is a " Repeal " journal and a " No-Repeal " journal ; for 
the Presbyterians there are yet more varieties of journalistic 
opinion, on which it does not become a stranger to pass a judg- 
ment. If the Northern Whig says that the Banner of Ulster " is 
a polluted rag, which has hoisted the red banner of falsehood " 
(which elegant words may be found in the first-named journal 
of the 13th October), let us be sure the Banner has a compli- 
ment for the Northern Whig in return ; if the " Repeal" Vindi- 
cator and the priests attack the Presbyterian journals and the 
"home missions," the reverend gentlemen of Geneva are quite 
as ready with the pen as their brethren of Rome, and not much 
more scrupulous in their language than the laity. When I was 
in Belfast, violent disputes were raging between Presbyterian 
and Episcopalian Conservatives with regard to the Marriage 
Bill ; betw^een Presbyterians and Cathohcs on the subject of the 



262 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

" home missions ;" between the Liberals and Conservatives, of 
course. " Thank God," for instance, writes a " Repeal " jour- 
nal, '' that the honor and power of Ireland are not involved in 
the disgraceful Afghan war ! " — a sentiment insinuating Repeal 
and something more ; disowning, not merel}' this or that Minis- 
try, but the sovereign and her jurisdiction altogether. But de- 
tails of these quarrels, religious or political, can tend to edifj' 
but few readers out of the country. Even in it, as there are 
some nine shades of politico-religious differences, an observer 
pretending to impartialit}' must necessarily displease eight par- 
ties, and almost certainl}- the whole nine ; and the reader who 
desires to judge the politics of Belfast must stud}' for himself. 
Nine journals, publishing four hundred numbers in a year, each 
number containing about as much as an octavo volume : these, 
and the back numbers of former 3"ears, sedulouslj' read, will 
give the student a notion of the subject in question. And then, 
after having read the statements on either side, he must ascer- 
tain the truth of them, b}' which time more labor of the same 
kind will have grown upon him, and he will have attained a 
good old age. 

Amongst the poor, the Catholics and Presbyterians are said 
to go in a prett}' friendly manner to the national schools ; but 
among the Presbyterians themselves it appears there are great 
differences and quarrels, by which a fine institution, the Belfast 
Academy, seems to have suffered considerabl}'. It is almost 
the onl}^ building in this large and substantial place, that bears, 
to the stranger's e^-e, an unprosperous air. A vast building, 
standing fair!}- in the midst of a handsome green and place, and 
with snug, comfortable red-brick streets stretching away at neat 
right angles all around, the Presbyterian College looks hand- 
some enough at a short distance, but on a nearer view is found 
in a woful state of dilapidation. It does not possess the su- 
preme dirt and filth of Maynooth — that can but belong to one 
place, even in Ireland ; but the building is in a dismal state of 
unrepair, steps and windows broken, doors and stairs battered. 
Of scholars I saw but a few, and these were in the drawing acad- 
emy. The fine arts do not appear as yet to flourish in Belfast. 
The models from which the lads were copying were not good : 
one was copying a bad cop}' of a drawing b}' Prout ; one was 
coloring a print. The ragged children in a German national 
school have better models before them, and are made acquainted 
with truer principles of art and beaut^y. 

Hard by is the Belfast 'Museum, where an exhibition of pic- 
tures was in preparation, under the patronage of the Belfast Art 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 263 

Union. Artists in all parts of the kingdom had been invited to 
send their works, of which the Union paj's the carriage; and 
the porters and secretar}^ were bus}^ unpacking cases, in which 
I recognized some of the works which had before figured on the 
walls of the London Exhibition rooms. 

The book-shops which I saw in this thriving town said much 
for the religious disposition of the Belfast pubhc : there were 
numerous portraits of reverend gentlemen, and their works of 
every variety : — " The Sinner's Friend,'' " The Watchman on 
the Tower," " The Peep of Day," " Sermons delivered at Be- 
thesda Chapel," by so-and-so ; with hundreds of the neat little 
gilt books with bad prints, scriptural titles, and gilt edges, that 
come from one or two serious publishing houses in London, and 
in considerable numbers from the neighboring Scotch shores. 
As for the theatre, with such a pubhc the drama can be ex- 
pected to find but little favor ; and the gentleman who accom- 
panied me in my walk, and to whom I am indebted for many 
kindnesses during my stay, said not only that he had never 
been in the playhouse, but that he never heard of any one going 
thither. I found out the place where the poor neglected Dra- 
matic Muse of Ulster hid herself; and was of a party of six in 
the boxes, the benches of the pit being dotted over with about 
a score more. Well, it was a comfort to see that the gallery 
was quite full, and exceedingly happy and noisy : they stamped, 
and stormed, and shouted, and clapped in a way that was 
pleasant to hear. One young god, between the acts, favored 
the public with a song — extremely ill sung certainl}-, but the 
intention was everything ; and his brethren above stamped in 
chorus with roars of delight. 

As for the piece performed, it was a good old melodrama of 
the British sort, inculcating a thorough detestation of vice and 
a warj^ sympathy with suffering virtue. The serious are surely 
too hard upon poor play-goers. We never for a moment allow 
rascality to triumph beyond a certain part of the third act : we 
sympathize with the woes of 3'oung lovers — her in ringlets and a 
Polish cap, him in tights and a Vandyke collar ; we abhor ava- 
rice or tyrann}^ in the person of ' ' the first old man " with the 
white wig and red stockings, or of the villain with the roaring 
voice and black whiskers ; we applaud the honest wag (he is a 
good fellow in spite of his cowardice) in his hearty jests at the 
tyrant before mentioned ; and feel a kindly S3'mpathy with all 
mankind as the curtain falls over all the characters in a group, 
of which successful love is the happ}^ centre. Reverend gentle- 
men in meeting-house and church, who shout against the im- 



264 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 



moralities of this poor stage, and threaten all play-goers with 
the fate which is awarded to unsuccessful plays, should try and 
bear less hardly upon us. 

An artist — who, in spite of the Art Union, can scarcely, I 
should think, flourish in a place that seems devoted to preach- 
ing, politics, and trade — has somehow found his way to this 
humble little theatre, and decorated it with some exceedingly 
pretty scenery — almost the only indication of a taste for the 
fine arts which I have found as yet in the country. 

A fine night-exhibition in the town is that of the huge 
spinning-mills which surround it, and of which the thousand 
windows are lighted up at nightfall, and may be seen from 
almost all quarters of the cit}^ 

A gentleman to whom I had brought an introduction, good- 
naturedly left his work to walk with me to one of these mills, 
and stated by whom he had been introduced to me to the mill- 
proprietor, Mr. Mulholland. " That recommendation," said 
Mr. Mulholland, gallantly, "is welcome anywhere." It was 
from my kind friend Mr. Lever. What a privilege some men 
have, who can sit quietly in their studies and make friends aU 
the world over ! 

Here is the figure of a 
girl sketched in the place : 
there are nearly five hun- 
dred girls employed in it. 
They work in huge long 
chambers, lighted b}^ num- 
bers of windows, hot with 
steam, buzzing and hum- 
ming with hundreds of 
thousands of whirling 
wheels, that all take their 
motion from a steam-engine 
which lives apart in a hot 
cast-iron temple of its own, 
from which it communi- 
cates with the innumerable 
machines that the five hun- 
dred girls preside over. 
The}^ have seemingly but 
to take away the work 
when done — the enormous 
monster in the cast-iron 
room does it all. He card^ 




THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 265 

the flax, and combs it, and spins it, and beats it, and twists it : 
the five hundred girls stand by to feed him, or take the material 
from him, when he has had his will of it. There is something 
frightful in the vastness as in the minuteness of this power. 
Every thread writhes and twirls as the steam-fate orders it, — 
ever}' thread, of which it would take a hundred to make the 
thickness of a hair. 

I have seldom, I think, seen more good looks than amongst 
the young women emplo3'ed in this place. They work for 
twelve hours daily, in rooms of which the heat is intolerable 
to a stranger ; but in spite of it they looked gay, stout, and 
health}' ; nor were their forms much concealed by the very 
simple clothes the}' wear while in the miU. 

The stranger will be struck by the good looks not only of 
these spinsters, but of almost all the young women in the 
streets. I never saw a town where so many women are to be 
met — so many and so pretty — with and without bonnets, with 
good figures, in neat homely shawls and dresses. The grisettes 
of Belfast are among the handsomest ornaments of it ; and as 
good, no doubt, and irreproachable in morals as their sisters in 
the rest of Ireland. 

Many of the merchants' counting-houses are crowded in Uttle 
old-fashioned " entries," or courts, such as one sees about the 
Bank in London. In and about these, and in the principal 
streets in the daytime, is a great activity, and homely unpre- 
tending bustle. The men have a business look, too ; and one 
sees very few flaunting dandies, as in Dublin. The shopkeepers 
do not brag upon their signboards, or keep "emporiums," as 
elsewhere, — their places of business being for the most part 
homely ; though one may see some splendid shops, which are 
not to be surpassed by London. The docks and quays are 
busy with their craft and shipping, upon the beautiful borders 
of the Lough ; — the large red warehouses stretching along the 
shores, with ships loading, or unloading, or building, hammers 
clanging, pitch pots flaming and boiling, seamen cheering in 
the ships, or lolling lazily on the shore. The life and move- 
ment of a port here give the stranger plenty to admire and 
observe. And nature has likewise done everything for the 
place — surrounding it with picturesque hills and water ; — for 
which latter I must confess I was not very sorry to leave the 
town behind me, and its mills, and its meeting-houses, and its 
commerce, and its theologians, and its politicians. 



266 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

CHAPTER XXVm. 

BELFAST TO THE CAUSEWAY. 

The Lough of Belfast has a reputation for beauty almost as 
great as that of the Bay of Dublin ; but though, on the day I 
left Belfast for Larne^ the morning was fine, and the sky clear 
and blue above, an envious mist lay on the water, which hid all 
its beauties from the dozen of passengers on the Larne coach. 
All we could see were ghostl^^ -looking silhouettes of ships gliding 
here and there through the clouds ; and I am sure the coach- 
man's remark was quite correct, that it was a pity the day was 
so mist}^ I found myself, before I was aware, entrapped into 
a theological controversy^ with two grave gentlemen outside the 
coach — another fog, which did not subside much before we 
reached Carrickfergus. The road from the Ulster capital to 
that little town seemed meanwhile to be extremel}^ lively : cars 
and omnibuses passed thickly peopled. For some miles along 
the road is a string of handsome countr}- -houses, belonging to 
the rich citizens of the town ; and we passed b}^ neat-looking 
churches and chapels, factories and rows of cottages clustered 
round them, like villages of old at the foot of feudal castles. 
Furthermore it was hard to see, for the mist which lay on the 
water had enveloped the mountains too, and we only had a 
glimpse or two of smiling comfortable fields and gardens. 

Carrickfergus rejoices in a real romantic-looking castle, jut- 
ting bravely into the sea, and famous as a background for a 
picture. It is of use for little else now, luckily ; nor has it 
been put to any real warlike purposes since the day when 
honest Thurot stormed, took, and evacuated it. Let any 
romancer who is in want of a hero peruse the second volume, 
or it ma}^ be the third, of the "Annual Register," where the 
adventures of that gallant fellow are related. He was a gentle- 
man, a genius, and, to crown all, a smuggler. He lived for 
some time in Ireland, and in England, in disguise ; he had love- 
passages and romantic adventures ; he landed a body of his 
countrymen on these shores, and died in the third volume, after 
a battle gallantly fought on both sides, but in which victory 
rested with the British arms. What can a novelist want more? 
William III. also landed here ; and as for the rest, " M'Skimin, 
the accurate and laborious historian of the town, informs us 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 267 

that the founding of the castle is lost in the depths of antiquity." 
It is pleasant to give a little historic glance at a place as one 
passes through. The above facts ma}- be relied on as coming 
from Messrs. Curr^^'s excellent new Guide-book ; with the ex- 
ception of the histor}^ of Mons. Thurot, which is "private 
information," drawn 3"ears ago from the scarce work previously 
mentioned. By the way, another excellent companion to the 
traveller in Ireland is the collection of the " Irish Pennj^ Maga- 
zine," which may be purchased for a guinea, and contains a 
mass of information regarding the customs and places of the 
country. Willis's work is amusing, as everj^thing is, written 
b}' that lively author, and the engravings accompanying it as 
unfaithful as anj^ ever made. 

Meanwhile, asking pardon for this double digression, which 
has been made while the guard-coachman is delivering his mail- 
bags — while the landlady stands looking on in the sun, her 
hands folded a little below the w^aist — while a company of tall 
huvly troops from the castle has passed b}-, "surrounded" by 
a ver}^ mean, mealy-faced, uneas3'-looking little subaltern — 
while the poor epileptic idiot of the town, wallowing and 
grinning in the road, and snorting out supplications for a 
halfpenny, has tottered away in possession of the coin : — 
meanwhile, fresh horses are brought out, and the small boy 
who acts behind the coach makes an unequal and disagreeable 
tootooing on a horn kept to warn sleepy carmen and celebrate 
triumphal entries into and exits from cities. As the mist 
clears up, the country shows round about wild but friendlj^ : at 
one place we passed a village where a crowd of well-dressed 
people were collected at an auction of farm -furniture, and many 
more figures might be seen coming over the fields and issuing 
from the mist. The owner of the carts and machines is going 
to emigrate to America. Presently we come to the demesne of 
Red Hall, "through which is a pretty drive of upwards of a 
mile in length : it contains a rocky glen, the bed of a mountain 
stream — which is perfectly dry, except in winter — and the 
woods about it are picturesque, and it is occasionally the resort 
of summer-parties of pleasure." Nothing can be more just 
than the first part of the description, and there is ver}' little 
doubt that the latter paragraph is equallj' faithful ; — with which 
we come to Larne, a " most thriving town," the same authority 
sa3's, but a most dirty and narrow-streeted and ill-built one. 
Some of the houses reminded one of the south. A benevolent 
fellow-passenger said that the window was "a convanience." 
And here, after a drive of nineteen miles upon a comfortable 



268 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

coach, we were transferred with the mail-bags to a comfortable 
car that makes the journey to Ballj'castle. There is no harm 
in sa3'ing that there was a very prett}^ smiling buxom young 
lass for a travelling companion ; and somehow, to a lonel}' 
person, the landscape always looks prettier in such societ}'. 
The "Antrim coast- road," which we now, after a few miles, 
begin to follow, besides being one of the most noble and gallant 
works of art that is to be seen in an^^ countr}^, is likewise a 
route highly picturesque and romantic ; the sea spreading wide 
before the spectator's eyes upon one side of the route, the tall 
cliffs of limestone rising abruptly above him on the other. 
There are in the map of Curr^^'s Guide-book points indicating 
castles and abbey ruins in the vicinit}" of Glenarm ; and the 
little place looked so comfortable, as we abruptly came upon 
it, round a rock, that I was glad to have an excuse for staying, 
and felt an extreme curiosity with regard to the abbey and the 
castle. 

The abbey only exists in the unromantic shape of a wall ; 
the castle, however, far from being a ruin, is an antique in the 
most complete order — an old castle repaired so as to look like 
new, and increased bj^ modern wings, towers, gables, and ter- 
races, so extremely old that the whole forms a grand and im- 
posing-looking baronial edifice, towering above the little town 
which it seems to protect, and with which it is connected by 
a bridge and a severe-looking armed tower and gate. In the 
town is a town-house, with a campanile in the Italian taste, 
and a school or chapel opposite in the early English ; so that 
the inhabitants can enjoy a considerable architectural varietj^ 
A grave-looking church, with a beautiful steeple, stands amid 
some trees hard by a second handsome bridge and the little 
qua}^ ; and here, too, was perched a poor little wandering thea- 
tre (gallery Id., pit 2c?.), and proposing that night to pla}' 
" Bombastes Furioso, and the Comic Bally of Glenarm in an 
Uproar," I heard the thumping of the dru.n in the evening ; 
but, as at Roundwood, nobod}^ patronized the poor pla3^ers. 
At nine o'clock there was not a single taper lighted under their 
awning, and my heart (perhaps it is too susceptible) bled for 
Fusbos. 

The severe gate of the castle was opened by a kind, good- 
natured old porteress, instead of a rough gallowglass with a 
battle-axe and j^ellow shirt (more fitting guardian of so stern 
a postern), and the old dame insisted upon my making an ap- 
plication to see the grounds of the castle, which request was 
very kindly granted, and afforded a dehghtful half-hour's walk. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 269 

The grounds are beautiful, and excellently kept ; the trees in 
their autumn livery of red, yellow, and brown, except some 
stout ones that keep to their green summer clothes, and the 
laurels and their like, who wear prett\' much the same dress 
all the year round. The birds were singing with the most 
astonishing vehemence in the dark glistening shrubberies ; 
but the only sound in the walks was that of the rakes pulling 
together the falling leaves. There was of these walks one 
especiallj-, flanked towards the river by a turreted wall covered 
with iv}', and having on the one side a row of lime-trees that 
had turned quite yellow, while opposite them was a green slope, 
and a quaint terrace-stair, and a long range of fantastic gables, 
towers, and chimneys ; — there was, I say, one of these walks 
which Mr. Cattermole would hit off with a few strokes of his 
gallant pencil, and which I could fanc}' to be frequented by 
some of those long-trained, tender, gentle-looking young beau- 
ties whom Mr. Stone loves to design. Here the}' come, talking 
of love in a tone that is between a sigh and a whisper, and 
gliding in rustling shot silks over the fallen leaves. 

There seemed to be a good deal of stir in the little port, 
where, saj's the Guide-book, a couple of hundred vessels take 
in cargoes annually of the produce of the district. Stone and 
lime are the chief articles exported, of which the cliffs for miles 
give an unfailing supply' ; and, as one travels the mountains at 
night, the kilns ma}' be seen lighted up in the lonely places, 
and flaring red in the darkness. 

If the road from Larne to Glenarm is beautiful, the coast 
route from the latter place to Cushendall is still more so ; and, 
except peerless Westport, I have seen nothing in Ireland so 
picturesque as this noble line of coast scenery. The new road, 
luckily, is not yet completed, and tlie lover of natural beauties 
had better hasten to tlie spot in time, ere, by flattening and im- 
proving the road, and leading it along the sea-shore, half the 
magnificent prospects are shut out, now visible from along the 
mountainous old road ; which, according to the good old fash- 
ion, gallanth' takes all the hills in its course, disdaining to turn 
them. At three miles' distance, near the village of Cairlough, 
Glenarm looks more beautiful than when 3'ou are close upon it ; 
and, as the car travels on to the stupendous- Garron Head, the 
traveller, looking back, has a view of the whole line of coast 
southward as far as Isle Magee, with its bays and white vil- 
lages, and tall precipitous cliffs, green, white, and gra}'. Ej'es 
left, you may look with wonder at the mountains rising above, 
or presently at the pretty park and grounds of Drumnasole. 



270 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

Here, near the woods of Nappan, which are dressed in ten 
thousand colors — ash-leaves turned yellow, nut-trees red, 
birch-leaves brown, lime-leaves speckled over with black spots 
(marks of a disease which they will never get over) — stands 
a school-house that looks like a French chateau, having proba- 
bly been a villa in former days, and discharges as we pass a 
cluster of fair-haired children, that begin running madly down 
the hill, their fair hair streaming behind them. Down the hill 
goes the car, madly too, and you wonder and bless your stars 
that the horse does not fall, or crush the children that are run- 
ning before, or you that are sitting behind. Every now and 
then, at a trip of the horse, a disguised lady's-maid, with a 
canary-bird in her lap and a vast anxiety about her best bonnet 
in the band-box, begins to scream : at which the car-boy grins, 
and rattles down the hill only the quicker. The road, which 
almost always skirts the hillside, has been torn sheer through 
the rock here and there : an immense work of levelling, shovel- 
ling, picking, blasting, filling, is going on along the whole line. 
As I was looking up a vast cliff, decorated with patches of 
green here and there at its summit, and at its base, where the 
sea had beaten until now, with long, thin, waving grass, that 
I told a grocer, my neighbor, was like mermaid's hair (though 
he did not in the least coincide in the simile) — as I was look- 
ing up the hill, admiring two goats that were browsing on a 
little patch of green, and two sheep perched yet higher (I had 
never seen such agility in mutton) — as, I say once more, I was 
looking at these phenomena, the grocer nudges me and says, 
" Look on to this side — that's Scotland yon.'' If ever this book 
reaches a second edition, a sonnet shall be inserted in this 
place, describing the author's feelings on his first view^ of 
Scotland. Meanwhile, the Scotch mountains remain undis- 
turbed, looking blue and solemn, far away in the placid sea. 

Rounding Garron Head, we come upon the inlet which is 
called Red Ba}^ the shores and sides of which are of red cla}^, 
that has taken the place of limestone, and towards which, be- 
tween two noble ranges of mountains, stretches a long green 
plain, forming, together with the hills that protect it and the 
sea that washes it, one of the most beautiful landscapes of this 
most beautiful countiy. A fair writer, whom the Guide-book 
quotes, breaks out into strains of admiration in speaking of 
this district; calls it "Switzerland in miniature," celebrates 
its mountains of GlenarifF and Lurgethan, and lauds, in terms 
of equal admiration, the rivers, waterfalls, and other natural 
beauties that lie within the olen. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 271 

The writer's enthusiasm regarding this tract of country is 
quite warranted, nor can any praise in admiration of it be too 
high ; but alas ! in calling a place " Switzerland in miniature," 
do we describe it? In joining together cataracts, valleys, rush- 
ing streams, and blue mountains, with all the emphasis and 
picturesqueness of which type is capable, we cannot get near 
to a cop3' of Nature's sublime countenance ; and the writer 
can't hope to describe such grand sights so as to make them 
visible to the fireside reader, but can only, to the best of his 
taste and experience, warn the future traveller where he may 
look out for objects to admire. I think this sentiment has 
been repeated a score of times in this journal ; but it comes 
upon one at ever}^ new display of beaut}' and magnificence, 
such as here the Almighty in his bounty has set before us ; 
and eveiy such scene seems to warn one, that it is not made 
to talk about too much, but to think of and love, and be grate- 
ful for. 

Rounding this beautiful bay and valley, we passed by some 
caves that penetrate deep into the red rock, and are inhabited 
— one b}' a blacksmith, whose forge was blazing in the dark ; 
one by cattle ; and one by an old woman that has sold whiskey 
here for time out of mind. The road then passes under an arch 
cut in the rock b}' the same spirited individual who has cleared 
away man}' of the difficulties in the route to Glenarm, and be- 
side a conical hill, where for some time previous have been visi- 
ble the ruins of the " ancient ould castle " of Red Bay. At a 
distance, it looks very grand upon its height ; but on coming 
close it has dwindled down to a mere wall, and not a high one. 
Hence quickly we reached Cushendall, where the grocer's fam- 
ily are on the look-out for him : the driver begins to blow his 
little bugle, and +he disguised lady's-maid begins to smooth 
her bonnet and litdr. 

At this place a good dinner of fresh whiting, broiled bacon, 
and small beer was served up to me for the sum of eightpence, 
while the lady's-maid in question took her tea. " This town is 
full of Papists," said her ladyship, with an extremely genteel 
air; and, either in consequence of this, or because she ate u[> 
one of the fish, which she had clearly no right to, a disagree- 
ment arose between us, and we did not exchange another word 
for the rest of the journey. The road led us for fourteen milc^ 
by wild mountains, and across a fine aqueduct to Ballycastle ; 
but it was dark as we left Cushendall, and it was difficult 1o 
see more in the gray evening but that the country was savage 
and lonely, except where the kilns were lighted up here and 



272 THE IRISH SKKTCH BOOK. 

there in the hills, and a shining river might be seen winding in 
the dark ravines. Not far from Ball^^^astle lies a little old 
ruin, called the Abbey of Bonamargy : by it the Margy river 
runs into the sea, upon which you come suddenl}^ ; and on the 
shore are some tall buildings and factories, that looked as well 
in the moonlight as if the}' had not been in ruins : and hence a 
fine avenue of limes leads to Ballycastle. They must have 
been planted at the time recorded in the Guide-book, when a 
mine was discovered near the town, and the works and ware- 
houses on the quay erected. At present, the place has little 
trade, and half a dozen carts with apples, potatoes, dried fish, 
and turf, seem to contain the commerce of the market. 

The picturesque sort of vehicle designed on the next page* is 
said to be going much out of fashion in the countr}^, the solid * 
wheels giving place to those common to the rest of Europe. A 
fine and edifying conversation took place between the designer 
and the owner of the vehicle. " Stand still for a minute, 3'ou 
and the car, and I will give 3'ou twopence ! " " What do you 
want to do with it?" says the latter. "To draw it." "To 
draw it!" says he, with a wild look of surprise. "And is it 
yoii'll draw it? " "I mean I want to take a picture of it : 3'ou 
know what a picture is!" "No, I don't." "Here's one," 
says I, showing him a book. "Oh, faith, sir," says the car- 
man, drawing back rather alarmed, " I'm no scholar!" And 
he concluded by saying, " Will you buy the turf^ or will you notV^ 
By which straightforward question he showed himself to be a real 
practical man of sense ; and, as he got an unsatisfactory repl}^ 
to this quer}', he forthwith gave a lash to his pon}' and declined 
to wait a minute longer. As for the twopence, he certainl}" 
accepted that handsome sum, and put it into his pocket, but 
with an air of extreme wonder at the transaction, and of con- 
tempt for the giver ; which ver}'^ likety was perfect!}' justifiable. 
I have seen men despised in genteel companies with not half 
so good a cause. 

In respect to the fine arts, I am bound to sa}' that the people 
in the South and West showed much more curiosit}' and interest 
with regard to a sketch and its progress than has been shown 
b}" the hadauds of the North ; the former looking on b}^ dozens 
and exclaiming, "That's Frank Mahony's house !" or "Look 
at Biddy MuHins and the child!" or "He's taking ofl" the 
chimne}^ now ! " as the case ma^^ be ; whereas, sketching in 
the North, I have collected no such spectators, the people not 
taking the slightest notice of the transaction. 

* This refers to an illustrated edition of the work. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 273 

The little town of Ballycastle does not contain much to 
occupy the traveller ; behind the church stands a ruined old 
mansion with round turrets, that must have been a stately 
tower in former da3'S. The town is more modern, but almost 
as dismal as the tower. A little street behind it slides off into 
a potato-field — the peaceful barrier of the place ; and hence I 
could see the tall rock of Bengore, with the sea bej^ond it, and 
a pleasing landscape stretching towards it. 

Dr. Hamilton's elegant and learned book has an awful 
picture of 3'onder head of Bengore ; and hard by it the Guide- 
book says is a coal-mine, where Mr. Barrow found a globular 
stone hammer, which, he infers, was used in the coal-mine 
before weapons of iron were invented. The former writer 
insinuates that the mine must have been worked more than a 
thousand' 3^ears ago, "before the turbulent chaos of events that 
succeeded the eighth century." Shall I go and see a coal-mine 
that ma}^ have been worked a thousand j^ears since ? Wh}^ go 
see it? says idleness. To be able to say that I have seen it. 
Sheridan's advice to his son here came into my mind ; * and I 
shall reserve a description of the mine, and an antiquarian dis- 
sertation regarding it, for publication elsewhere. 

Ballycastle must not be left without recording the fact that 
one of the snuggest inns in the country is kept by the post- 
master there ; who has also a stable full of good horses for 
travellers who take his little inn on the way to the Giant's 
Causewa}^ 

The road to the Causeway is bleak, wild, and hilly. The 
cabins along the road are scarcely better than those of Keny, 
the inmates as ragged, and more fierce and dark-looking. I- 
never was so pestered by juvenile beggars as in the dismal 
village of Ballinto}^. A crowd of them rushed after the car, 
callhig for money in a fierce manner, as if it was their right : 
dogs as fierce as the children came yelUng after the vehicle ; 
and the faces which scowled out of the black cabins were not a 
whit more good-humored. We passed by one or two more 
clumps of cabins, with their turf and corn-stacks h'ing together 
at the foot of the hills ; placed there for the convenience of the 
children, doubtless, who can thus accompau}' the car either 
way, and shriek out their " Bonny gantleman, gi'e us a ha'p'ny." 
A couple of churches, one with a pair of its pinnacles blown 
oflT, stood in the dismal open country, and a gentleman's house 
here and there : there were no trees about them, but a brown 

* " I want to go into a coal-mine," says Tom Sheridan, " in order to say 
I have been there." " Well, then, say so," replied the admirable father. 

18 



274: THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

grass round about — hills rising and falling in front, and the 
sea beyond. The occasional view of the coast was noble ; wild 
Bengore towering eastwards as we went along ; Raghery Island 
before us, in the steep rocks and caves of w^hich Bruce took 
shelter when driven from yonder Scottish coast, that one sees 
stretching blue in the north-east. 

I think this wild gloomy tract through which one passes is a 
good prelude for what is to be the great sight of the day, and 
got m}^ mind to a proper state of awe by the time we were near 
the journey's end. Turning away shorewards by the fine house 
of Sir Francis Macnaghten, I went towards a lone handsome 
inn, that stands close to the Causeway. The landlord at Bally- 
castle had lent me Hamilton's book to read on the road ; but I 
had not time then to read more than half a dozen pages of it. 
They described how the author, a clergyman distinguished as a 
man of science, had been thrust out of a friend's house by the 
frightened servants one wild night, and butchered by some 
Whitebo3's who were waiting outside and called for his blood. 
I had been told at Belfast that there was a corpse in the inn : 
was it there now? It had driven off, the car-bo}'^ said, " in a 
handsome hearse and four to Dublin the whole wa}^" It was 
gone, but I thought the house looked as if the ghost was there. 
See, yonder are the black rocks stretching to Portrush : how 
leaden and gray the sea looks ! how gray and leaden the skj- ! 
You hear the waters roaring evermore, as they have done since 
the beginning of the world. The car drives up with a dismal 
grinding noise of the wheels to the big lone house : there's no 
smoke in the chimneys ; the doors are4ocked. Three savage- 
looking men rush after the car : are the}^ the men who took out 
Mr. Hamilton — took him out and butchered him in the moon- 
light? Is everybody, I wonder, dead in that big house? Will 
they let us in before those men are up? Out comes a pretty 
smiling girl, with a curtsy, just as the savages are at the car, 
and you are ushered into a very comfortable room ; and the 
men turn out to be guides. Well, thank heaven it's no worse ! 
I had fifteen pounds still left ; and, when desperate, have no 
doubt should fight like a lion. 



Mis IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 275 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE giant's causeway COLERAINE PORTRUSH. 

The traveller no sooner issues from the inn b}' a back door, 
which he is informed will lead him straight to the Causewa}', 
than the guides pounce upon him, with a dozen rough boatmen 
who are Ukewise lying in wait ; and a crew of shrill beggar- 
bo3'S, with boxes of spars, ready to tear him and each other to 
pieces seemingly, yell and bawl incessantly round him. " I'm 
the guide Miss Henry recommends," shouts one. "I'm Mr. 
Macdonald's guide," pushes in another. " This wa}^," roars 
a third, and drags his pre}" down a precipice ; the rest of 
them clambering and quarrelling after. I had no friends : 
I was perfectly helpless. I wanted to walk down to the 
shore by myself, but they would not let me, and I had 
nothing for it but to yield myself into the hands of the guide 
who had seized me, who hurried me down the steep to a little 
wild ba}', flanked on each side by rugged cliffs and rocks, 
against which the waters came tumbling, frothing, and roaring 
furiousl}'. Upon some of these black rocks two or three boats 
were 13'ing : four men seized a boat, pushed it shouting into the 
water, and ravished me into it. We had slid between two 
rocks, where the channel came gurgling in : we were up one 
swelling wave that came in a huge advancing bod}^ ten feet 
above us, and were plunging madly down another, (the descent 
causes a sensation in the lower regions of the stomach which it 
is not at all necessary here to describe,) before I had leisure to 
ask myself why the deuce I was in that boat, with four rowers 
hurrooing and bounding madly from one huge liquid mountain 
to another — four rowers whom I was bound to pay. I sa}', 
the query came qualmishl}^ across me why the devil I was there, 
and why not walking calmly on the shore. 

The guide began pouring his professional jargon into my 
ears. " Every one of them bays," says he, " has a name (take 
my place, and the spra}^ won't come over you) : that is Port 
Noffer, and the next. Port na Gange ; them rocks is the Stook- 
awns (for ever}' rock has its name as well as every bay) ; and 
yonder — give way, my boys, — hurray, we're over it now: 
has it wet you much, sir? — that's the little cave : it goes five 



276 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

hundred feet under ground, and the boats goes into it easy of a 
cahn da}^" 

"Is it a fine da}' or a rough one now? " said I ; the inter- 
nal disturbance going on with more severity than ever. 

" It's betwixt and between ; or, I may sa}', neither one nor 
the other. Sit up, sir. Look at the entrance of the cave. 
Don't be afraid, sir : never has an accident happened in any of 
tliese boats, and the most deUcate ladies has rode in them on 
rougher days than this. Now, bo^'s, pull to the big cave. 
That, sir, is six hundred and sixty j^ards in length, though 
some sa}^ it goes for miles inland, where the people sleeping in 
their houses hear the waters roaring under them." 

The water was tossing and tumbling into the mouth of the 
little cave. I looked, — for the guide would not let me alone 
till I did, — and saw what might be expected : a black hole of 
some forty feet high, into which it was no more possible to see 
than into a millstone. "For heaven's sake, sir," says I, " if 
you've no particular wish to see the mouth of the big cave, put 
about and let us see the Cause wa}' and get ashore." This was 
done, the guide meanwhile telling some story of a ship of the 
Spanish Armada having fired her guns at two peaks of rock, 
then visible, which the crew mistook for chimney-pots — what 
benighted fools these Spanish Armadilloes must have been : it 
is easier to see a rock than a chimney-pot ; it is easy to know 
that chimnej'-pots do not grow on rocks. — "But where, if 
you please, is the Causeway? " 

" That's the Causewa}' before you," says the guide. 

"Which?" 

"That pier which you see jutting out into the bay, right 
a-head." 

" Mon Dieu ! and have I travelled a hundred and fifty miles 
to see that 2 " 

I declare, upon my conscience, the barge moored at Hun- 
gerford market is a more majestic object, and seems to occup}' 
as much space. As for telling a man that the Causeway is 
merel}^ a part of the sight ; tbat he is there for the purpose of 
examining the surrounding scenery ; that if he looks to the 
westward he will see Portrush and Donegal Head before him ; 
that the cliffs immediatelj^ in his front are green in some 
places, black in others, interspersed with blotches of brown and 
streaks of verdure ; — what is all this to a lonelj^ individual 
lying sick in a boat, between two immense waves that only 
give him momentar}^ glimpses of the land in question, to show 
that it is frightfully near, and ^et yon are an hour from it? 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 277 

The}' won't let you go awaj — that cursed guide will tell out 
his stock of legends and stories. The boatmen insist upon 
your looking at boxes of " specimens," which you must buy 
of them ; the3' laugh as you grow paler and paler ; the}- offer 
3-0U more and more " specimens ; " even the dirty lad who pulls 
number three, and is not allowed by his comrades to speak, 
puts in his oar, and hands you over a piece of Irish diamond 
(it looks hke half-sucked alicompayne) , and scorns you. " Hur- 
ray, lads, now for it, give wa}- ! " how the oars do hurtle in the 
rowlocks, as the boat goes up an aqueous mountain, and then 
down into one of those cursed maritime valleys where there is 
no rest as on shore ! 

At last, after tliey had pulled me enough about, and sold me 
all the boxes of specimens, I was permitted to land at the spot 
whence we set out, and whence, though we had been rowing 
for an hour, we had never been above five hundred yards dis- 
tant. Let all Cockne3's take warning from this ; let the solitary 
one caught issuing from the back door of the hotel, shout at 
once to the boatmen to be gone — that he will have none of 
them. Let him, at any rate, go first down to the water to de- 
termine whether it be smooth enough to allow him to take any 
decent pleasure b}- riding on its surface. For after all, it must 
be remembered that it is pleasure we come for — that we are 
not obliged to take those boats. — Well, well ! I paid ten shil- 
lings for mine, and ten minutes before would cheerfullj^ have 
paid five pounds to be allowed to quit it : it was no hard bar- 
gain after all. As for the boxes of spar and specimens, I at 
once, being on terra firma, broke mj promise, and said I 

would see them all first. It is wrong to swear, I know ; 

but sometimes it relieves one so much ! 

The first act on shore was to make a sacrifice to Sanctissima 
Tellus ; off'ering up to her a neat and becoming Taglioni coat, 
bought for a guinea in Covent Garden only three months back. 
I sprawled on my back on the smoothest of rocks that is, and 
tore the elbows to pieces : the guide picked me up ; the boatmen 
did not stir, for they had had their will of me ; the guide alone 
picked me up, I say, and bade me follow him. We went across 
a boggy ground in one of the little bays, round which rise the 
green walls of the clifl^, terminated on either side b}^ a black 
crag, and the line of the shore washed by the poluphloisboiotic, 
nay, the poluphloisboiotatotic sea. Two beggars stepped over 
the bog after us howling for money, and each holding up a 
cursed box of specimens. No oaths, threats, entreaties, would 
drive these vermin away ; for some time the whole scene had 



% 



278 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

been spoilt b}^ the incessant and abominable jargon of them, 
the boatmen, and the guides. I was obliged to give them 
mone}^ to be left in quiet, and if, as no doubt will be the case, 
the Giant's Causeway shall be a still greater resort of travel- 
lers than ever, the county must put policemen on the rocks to 
keep the beggars away, or fling them in the water when the^^ 
appear. 

And now, by force of money, having got rid of the sea and 
land beggars, you are at liberty to examine at 3''our leisure the 
wonders of the place. There is not the least need for a guide 
to attend the stranger, unless the latter have a mind to listen 
to a parcel of legends, which may be well from the mouth of a 
wild simple peasant who believes in his tales, but are odious 
from a dullard who narrates them at the rate of sixpence a lie. 
Fee him and the other beggars, and at last 3'ou are left tranquil 
to look at the strange scene with 3^our own eyes, and enjoy 
3'our own thoughts at leisure. 

That is, if the thoughts awakened by such a scene ma}' be 
called enjo}^ment ; but for me, I confess, the}^ are too near akin 
to fear to be pleasant ; and I don't know that I would desire to 
change that sensation of awe and terror which the hour's walk 
occasioned, for a greater familiarity with this wild, sad, lonel}^ 
place. The solitude is awful. I can't understand how those 
chattering guides dare to lift up their voices here, and crj^ for 
money. 

It looks like the beginning of the world, somehow : the sea 
looks older than in other places, the hills and rocks strange, and 
formed differently from other rocks and hills — as those vast 
dubious monsters were formed who possessed the earth before 
man. The hill-tops are shattered into a thousand cragged fan- 
tastical shapes ; the water comes swelling into scores of little 
strange creeks, or goes off with a leap, roaring into those mys- 
terious caves yonder, which penetrate who knows how far into 
our common world? The savage rock-sides are painted of a 
hundred colors. Does the sun ever shine here? When the 
world was moulded and fashioned out of formless chaos, this 
must have been the hit over — a remnant of chaos ! Think of 
that! — it is a tailor's simile. Well, I am a Cockney: I wish 
I were in Pall Mall ! Yonder is a kelp-burner : a lurid smoke 
from his burning kelp rises up to the leaden sky, and he looks 
as naked and fierce as Cain. Bubbling up out of the rocks at 
the very brim of the sea rises a little crystal spring : how comes 
it there? and there is an old gray hag beside, who has been 
there for hundreds and hundreds of years, and there sits and 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 279 

sells whiskey at the extremit}' of creation ! How do 3^011 dare 
to sell whiskey there, old woman ? Did 3011 serve old Saturn 
with a glass when he la}' along the Causeway here ? In reph', 
she says, she has no change for a shilling : she never has ; but 
her whiskey is good. 

This is not a description of the Giant's Causewa}^ (as some 
clever critic will remark), but of a Londoner there, who is by 
no means so interesting an object as the natural curiosity in 
question. That single hint is sufficient; I have not a word 
more to say. "If," says he, " 3'ou cannot describe the scene 
lying before us — if 3' on cannot state from your personal ob- 
servation that the number of basaltic pillars composing the 
Causewa3' has been computed at about fort3- thousand, which 
var3^ in diameter, their surface presenting the appearance of a 
tessellated pavement of polygonal stones — that each pillar is 
formed of several distinct joints, the convex end of the one 
being accurately fitted in the concave of the next, and the 
length of the joints varying from five feet to four inches — that 
although the pillars are polygonal, there is but one of three 
sides in the whole fort3' thousand (think of that !), but three of 
nine sides, and that it ma3' be safel3' computed that ninety-nine 
out of one hundred pillars have either five, six, or seven sides ; 
if you cannot state something useful, 3'ou had much better, sir, 
retire and get your dinner." 

Never was summons more gladl3' obeyed. The dinner must 
be ready by this time ; so, remain you, and look on at the awful 
scene, and copy it down in words if you can. If at the end of 
the trial you are dissatisfied with 3'our skill as a painter, and 
find that the biggest of 3^our words cannot render the hues 
and vastness of that tremendous swelling sea — of those lean 
solitary crags standing rigid along the shore, where the3' have 
been watching the ocean ever since it was made — of those gray 
towers of Dunluce standing upon a leaden rock, and looking as 
if some old, old princess, of old, old fairy times, were dragon- 
guarded within — of yon flat stretches of sand where the Scotch 
and Irish mermaids hold conference — come away too, and 
prate no more about the scene ! There is that in nature, dear 
Jenkins, which "passes even our powers. We can feel the beauty 
of a magnificent landscape, perhaps : but we can describe a 
leg of mutton and turnips better. Come, then, this scene is for 
our betters to depict. If Mr. Tennyson were to come hither for 
a month, and brood over the place, he might, in some of those 
lofty heroic lines which the author of the ' ' Morte d'Arthur " 
knows how to pile up, convey to the reader a sense of this gigan° 



280 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK, 

tic desolate scene. What! you, too, are a poet? Well, then, 
Jenkins, stay ! but believe me, you had best take my advice, 
and come off. 

The worth}^ landladj^ made her appearance with the politest 
of bows and an apolog}^, — for what does the reader think a 
lady should apologize in the most lonely rude spot in the world ? 
— because a plain servant-woman was about to bring in the 
dinner, the waiter being absent on leave at Coleraine ! O heaven 
and earth ! where will the genteel end ? I replied philosophi- 
cally that I did not care twopence for the plainness or beaut}^ 
of the waiter, but that it was the dinner I looked to, the frying 
whereof made a great noise in the huge lonely house ; and it 
must be said, that though the lady ivas plain, the repast was 
exceedingl}' good. "I have expended my httle all," says the 
landlady, stepping in with a speech after dinner, " in the build- 
ing of this establishment ; and though to a man its profits may 
appear small, to such a being as I am it will bring, I trust, a 
sufficient return ; " and on my asking her why she took the 
place, she replied that she had alwa^^s, from her earliest youth, 
a fanc}^ to dwell in that spot, and had accordingly realized her 
wish b}' building this hotel — this mausoleum. In spite of the 
bright fire, and the good dinner, and the good wine, it was 
impossible to feel comfortable in the place ; and when the car 
wheels were heard, I jumped up with joy to take my depart- 
ure and forget the awful lonely shore, and that wild, dismal, 
genteel inn. A ride over a wide gusty countr^s in a gray, 
mistj', half-moonlight, the loss of a wheel at Bushmills, and 
the escape from a tumble, were the delightful varieties after 
the late awful occurrences. " Such a being" as I am, would 
die of loneliness in that hotel ; and so let all brother Cockneys 
be warned. 

Some time before we came to it, we saw the long line of mist 
that la}^ above the Bann, and coming through a dirt}^ suburb of 
low cottages, passed down a broad street with gas and lamps 
in it (thank heaven, there are people once more !), and at length 
drove up in state, across a gas-pipe, in a market-place, before 
an hotel in the town of Coleraine, famous for linen and for 
Beautiful Kitty, who must be old and ugly now, for it's a good 
five-and-thirty years since she broke her pitcher, according to 
Mr. Moore's account of her. The scene as we entered the 
Diamond was rather a lively one — a score of little stalls were 
brilliant with lights ; the people were thronging in the place 
making their Saturda}^ bargains ; the town clock began to toll 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 281 

nine ; and hark ! faithful to a minute, the horn of the Derry 
mail was heard tootooing, and four commercial gentlemen, 
with Scotch accents, rushed into the hotel at the same time with 
m3^self. 

Among the beauties of Coleraine maj^ be mentioned the price 
of l?eef, which a gentleman told me may be had for fourpence 
a pound ; and I saw him purchase an excellent codfish for a 
shilling. I am bound, too, to state for the benefit of aspiring 
Radicals, what two Conservative citizens of the place stated to 
me, viz. ; — that though there were two Conservative candidates 
then canvassing the town, on account of a vacancj' in the rep- 
resentation, the voters were so truly liberal that they would 
elect any person of any other political creed, who would simply 
bring mone}' enough to purchase their votes. There are 220 
voters, it appears ; of whom it is not, however, necessary to 
" argue" with more than fiftj', who alone are open to convic- 
tion ; but as parties are pretty equalh^ balanced, the votes of 
the quinquagint, of course, carry an immense weight with them. 
Well, this is all discussed calml}' standing on an inn-steps, with 
a jolly landlord and a professional man of the town to give the 
information. So, heaven bless us, the ways of London are 
beginning to be known even here. Gentilitj^ has already taken 
up her seat in the Giant's Causeway, where she apologizes for 
the plainness of her look : and, lo ! here is bribery, as bold as 
in the most civilized places — hundreds and hundreds of miles 
away from St. Stephen's and Pall Mall. I wonder, in that little 
island of Ragher^^, so wild and lonely, whether civilization is 
beginning to dawn upon them ? — whether they bribe and are 
genteel? But for the rough sea of yesterday, I think I would 
have fled thither to make the trial. 

The town of Coleraine, with a number of cabin suburbs 
belonging to it, lies picturesquel}* grouped on the Baun river : 
and the whole of the little city was echoing with psalms as I 
walked through it on the Sunday morning. The piety of the 
people seems remarkable ; some of the inns even will not receive 
travellers on Sunda}' ; and this is written in an hotel, of which 
every room is provided with a Testament, containing an injunc- 
tion on the part of the landlord to consider this world itself as 
onl}^ a passing abode. Is it well that Boniface should furnish 
his guest with Bibles as well as bills, and sometimes shut his 
door on a traveller, who has no other choice but to read it on a 
Sunday? I heard of a gentleman arriving from ship-board at 
Kilrush on a Sunday, when tlie pious hotel-keeper refused him 
admittance ; and some more tales, which to go into would re 



282 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

quire the introduction of private names and circumstances, but 
would tend to show that the Protestant of the North is as much 
priest-ridden as the Catholic of the South : — priest and old- 
woman ridden, for there are certain expounders of doc- 
trine in our church, who are not, I believe, to be found in 
the church of Rome ; and woe betide the stranger who comes 
in to settle in these parts, if his " seriousness" be not satisfac- 
tory to the heads (with false fronts to most of them) of the 
congregations. 

Look at that little snug harbor of Portrush ! a hideous new 
castle standing on a rock protects it on one side, a snug row of 
gentlemen's cottages curves round the shore facing northward, 
a bath-house, an hotel, more smart houses, face the beach 
westward, defended by another mound of rocks. In the centre 
of the little town stands a new-built church ; and the whole 
place has an air of comfort and neatness which is seldom seen 
in Ireland. One would fancy that all the tenants of these 
prett}' snug habitations, sheltered in this nook far away from 
the world, have nothing to do but to be happy, and spend their 
little comfortable means in snug little hospitalities among one 
another, and kind little charities among the poor. What does 
a man in active life ask for more than to retire to such a com- 
petence, to such a snug nook of the world ; and there repose 
with a stock of health}' children round the fireside, a friend 
within call, and the means of decent hospitality wherewith to 
treat him? 

Let any one meditating this pleasant sort of retreat, and 
charmed with the look of this or that place as peculiarly suited 
to his purpose, take a special care to understand his neighbor- 
hood first, before he commit himself, by lease-signing or house- 
buying. It is not sufficient that you should be honest, kind- 
hearted, hospitable, of good family — what are your opinions 
upon religious subjects ? Are they such as agree with the 
notions of old Lady This, or Mrs. That, who are the patron- 
esses of the village ? If not, woe betide 3'ou ! you will be 
shunned by the rest of the society, thwarted in your attempts 
to do good, whispered against over evangelical bohea and 
serious muffins. Lad}^ This will inform everj' new arrival that 
you are a reprobate, and lost, and Mrs. That will consign 3'ou 
and your daughters, and j^our wife (a worthy woman, but, 
alas! united to that sad worldlj' man!) to damnation. The 
clergyman who partakes of -the muffins and bohea before men- 
tioned, will very possibly preach sermons against you from the 
pulpit : this was not done at Portstewart to my knowledge, but 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 283 

I have had the pleasure of sitting under a minister in Ireland 
who insulted the ver}^ patron who gave him his living, discours- 
ing upon the sinfulness of partridge-shooting, and threatening 
hell-fire as the last "meet" for fox-hunters; until the squire, 
one of the best and most charitable resident landlords in Ire- 
land, was absolutel}" driven out of the church where his fathers 
had worshipped for hundreds of years, b}^ the iusults of this 
howling evangelical inquisitor. 

So much as this I did not hear at Portstewart ; but I was 
told that at yonder neat-looking bath-house a dying woman was 
denied a bath on a Sunda}^ By a clause of the lease by which 
the bath-owner rents his establishment, he is forbidden to give 
baths to any one on the Sunda3\ The landlord of the inn, for- 
sooth, shuts his gates on the same da}', and his conscience on 
week-da3's will not allow him to supply his guests with whiske}^ 
or ardent spirits. I was told by mj- friend, that because he 
refused to subscribe for some fanc}^ charit}-, he received a let- 
ter to state that " he spent more in one dinner than in charit\' 
in the course of the year." M3' worthy friend did not care to 
contradict the statement, as wli}" should a man deign to med- 
dle with such a lie? But think how all the fishes, and all the 
pieces of meat, and all the people who went in and out of his 
snug cottage b}^ the sea-side must have been watched b}' the 
serious round about ! The sea is not more constant roaring 
there, than scandal is whispering. How happy I felt, while 
hearing these histories (demure heads in crimped caps peeping^ 
over the blinds at us as we walked on the beach), to think I am 
a Cockne}', and don't know the name of the man who lives next 
door to me ! 

I have heard various stories, of course from persons of va- 
rious ways of thinking, charging their opponents with hypoc- 
ris}^, and proving the charge by statements clearly showing that 
the priests, the preachers, or the professing religionists in ques- 
tion, belied their professions wofully by their practice. But 
in matters of religion, hypocris}' is so awful a charge to make 
against a man, that I think it is almost unfair to mention even 
the cases in which it is proven, and which, — as, pra}' God, 
they are but exceptional, — a person should be ver}' careful of 
mentioning, lest the}^ be considered to appl}' generallj'. Tar- 
tuffe has been always a disgusting play to me to see, in spite of 
its sense and its wit ; and so, instead of printing, here or else- 
where, a few stories of the Tartu ffe kind which 1 have heard in 
Ireland, the best way will be to try and forget them. It is an 
awful thing to say of tmy man walking under God's sun by the 



2S4 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

side of us, "You are a hj^pocrite, tying as 3-ou use the Most 
Sacred Name, knowing that 3^ou he while you use it." Let it 
be the privilege of any sect that is so minded, to imagine that 
there is perdition in store for all the rest of God's creatures 
who do not think with them : but the easy countercharge of 
h3^pocris3^ which the world has been in the habit of making in 
its turn, is surely just as fatal and bigoted an accusation as any 
that the sects make against the world. 

What has this disquisition to do apropos of a walk on the 
beach at Portstewart? Wh}', it ma}^ be made here as well as 
in other parts of Ireland, or elsewhere as well, perhaps, as here. 
It is the most priest-ridden of countries ; Catholic clergymen 
lord it over their ragged flocks, as Protestant preachers, lay 
and clerical, over their more genteel co-religionists. Bound to 
inculcate peace and good-will, their whole life is one of emnity 
and distrust. 

Walking awa^^ from the little bay and the disquisition which 
has somehow been raging there, we went across some wild dreary 
highlands to the neighboring little town of Portrush, where- is a 
neat town and houses, and a harbor, and a new church too, so 
like the last-named place that I thought for a moment we had 
only made a round, and were back again at Portstewart. Some 
gentlemen of the place, and my guide, who had a neighbor^ 
liking for it, showed me the new church, and seemed to be well 
pleased with the edifice ; which is, indeed, a neat and convenient 
one, of a rather irregular Gothic. The best thing about the 
church, I think, was the history of it. The old church had 
lain some miles off, in the most inconvenient part of the par- 
ish, whereupon the clergyman and some of the gentr}^ had 
raised a subscription in order to build the present church. 
The expenses had exceeded the estimates, or the subscriptions 
had fallen short of the sums necessar}^ ; and the church, in con- 
sequence, was opened with a debt on it, which the rector and 
two more of the gentry had taken on their shoulders. The liv- 
ing is a small one, the other two gentlemen going bail for the 
edifice not so rich as to think light of the paj^ment of a couple 
of hundred pounds bej'oncl their previous subscriptions — the 
lists are therefore still open ; and the clerg3'man expressed him- 
self perfectly satisfied either that he would be reimbursed one 
da3^ or other, or that he would be able to make out the pa3'- 
ment of the money for which he stood engaged. Most of the 
Roman Catholic churches that I have seen through the country 
have been built in this wa3", — begun when mone3' enough was 
levied for constructing the foundation, elevated % degrees as 



TiiJ^ iKiSH feKETCH BOOK. 285 

fresh subscriptions came in, and finished —by the way, I don't 
think I have seen one finished ; bnt there is something noble 
m the spirit (however certain economists may cavil at it) that 
leads people to commence these pious undertakings with the 
firm trust that '' Heaven will provide." 

Eastward from Portrush, we came upon a beautiful level sand 
which leads to the White Rocks, a famous place of resort for 
the frequenters of the neighboring watering-places. Here are 
caves, and for a considerable distance a view of the wild and 
gloomy Antrim coast as far as Bengore. Midway, juttino- into 
the sea, (and I was glad it was so far off,) was the Causc°wav • 
and nearer, the gray towers of Dunluce. 

Looking north, were the blue Scotch hiUs and the neigh- 
boring Raghery Island. Nearer Portrush were two rocky isl- 
ands, called the Skerries, of which a sportsman of our party 
vaunted the capabilities, regretting that my stay was not lono-e/ 
so that I might land and shoot a few ducks there. This °un- 
lucky lateness of the season struck me also as a most afflicting 
circumstance. He said also that fish were caught ofl" the 
island — not fish good to eat, but very strong at pulling, .eager 
of biting, and affording a great deal of sport. And so we 
turned our backs once more upon the Giant's Causeway, and 
the grim coast on which it lies; and as my taste in life" leads 
me to prefer looking at the smiling fresh face of a young 
cheerful beauty, rather than at the fierce coiTlitenance and hio-h 
features of a dishevelled Meg Merrilies, I must say again that 
I was glad to turn my back on this severe part of the Antrim 
coast, and my steps towards Derry. 



CHAPTER XXX. 

PEG OF LIMAVADDY. 



Between Coleraine and Derry there is a daily car (besides 
one or two occasional queer-looking coaches), and I had this 
vehicle, with an intelligent driver, and a horse with a hideous 
raw on his shoulder, entirely to myself for the five-and-twenty 
miles of our journey. The cabins of Coleraine are not parted 
with in a hurry, ai>d we crossed the I)ridge, and went up 



286 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

and clown the hills of one of the suburban streets, the Bann 
flowing picturesquely to our left ; a large Catholic chapel, the 
before-mentioned cabins, and farther on, some neat-looking 
houses and plantations, to our right. Then we began ascend- 
ing wide lonely hills, pools of bog shining here and there 
amongst them, with birds, both black and white, both geese 
and crows, on the hunt. Some of the stubble was already 
ploughed up, but b}' the side of most cottages you saw a black 
potato-field that it was time to dig now, for the weather was 
changing and the winds beginning to roar. Woods, whenever 
we passed them, were flinging- round eddies of mustard-colored 
leaves ; the white trunks of lime azid ash trees beginning to 
look ver}' bare. 

Then we stopped to give the ra^v -backed horse water ; then 
we trotted down a hill with a noble bleak prospect of Lough 
Foyle and the surrounding mountains before us, until we 
reached the town of Newtown Limavaddy, where the raw- 
backed horse was exchanged for another not much more agree- 
able in his appearance, though, like his comrade, not slow on 
the road. 

Newtown Limavaddy is the third town in the county of 
Londonderr3^ It comprises three well-built streets, the others 
are inferior; it is, however, respectably inhabited: all this 
may be true, as the w^ell-informed Guide-book avers, but I am 
bound to say that 1 was thinking of something else as we drove 
through the town, having fallen eternally in love during the ten 
minutes of our sta}^ 

Yes, Peggy of Limavaddy, if Barrow and Inglis have gone 
to Connemara to fall in love with the Misses Flynn, let us be 
allowed to come to Ulster and offer a tribute of praise at your 
feet — at your stockingless' feet, O Margaret ! Do 3^ou remem- 
ber the October day ('twas the first day of the hard weather) , 
when the wa3^-worn traveller entered your inn ? But the circum- 
stances of this passion had better be chronicled in deathless 
verse. 



PEG OF LIMAVADDY. 



Riding from Coleraine 
(Famed for lovely Kitty), 

Came a Cockney bound 
Unto Derry city j 



Weary was his soul, 
Shivering and sad he 

Bumped along the road 
Leads to Limavaddy. 



THE mJSH SKETCH BOOK. 



287 



Mountains stretch'd around, 

Gloomy was their tinting, 
And the horse's hoofs 

Made a dismal dinting ; 
Wind upon the heath 

HoAvling was and piping, 
On the heath and bog. 

Black with many a snipe in ; 
Mid the bogs of black. 

Silver pools were flashing, 
Crows upon their sides 

Picking were and splashing 
Cockney on the car 

Closer folds his plaidy. 
Grumbling at the road 

Leads to Limavaddy. 

♦ 
Through the crashing woods 

Autumn brawl'd and blusler'd, 
Tossing round about 

Leaves the hue of mustari; 
Yonder lay Lough Foyle, 

Which a storm was whip|]ing. 
Covering with mist 

Lake, and shores, and shij.ping. 
Up and down the hill 

(Nothing could be bolder), 
Horse went with a raw, 

Bleeding on his shoulder. 
" Where are horses changeJ ? " 

Said I to the laddy 
Driving on the box :' 

" Sir, at Limavaddy." 
Limavaddy inn's 

But a humble baithouse, 
Wliere 3^ou may procure 

Wliiskey and potatoes ; 
Landlord at the door 

Gives a smiling welcome 
To the shivering wights 

Who to his hotel come. 
Landlady within 

Sits and knits a stocking-, 
With a wary foot 
Baby's cradle rocking. 

'To the chimney nook, 

Having found admittance, 
There I watch a pup 

Playing with two kittens ; 
(Playing round the fire, 

Which of blazing turf is, 
Roaring to the pot 

Which bubbles with the murphies;) 



And the cradled babe 
Fond the mother nursed it ! 

Singing it a song 
As she twists the worsted! 

Up and down the stair 

Two more young ones patter 
(Twins were never seen 

Dirtier nor fatter); 
Both liave mottled legs. 

Both have snubby noses. 
Both have — Here the Host 

Kindly interposes : 
" Sure you must be froze 

With the sleet and hail, sir, 
So will you have some punch. 

Or will you have some ale, sir ? 

Presently a maid 

Enters with the liquor, 
(Half a pint of ale 

Frothing in a beaker). 
Gods ! I didn't know 

What my beating heart meant, 
Hebe's self I thought 

Enter'd the apartment. 
As she came she smiled. 

And the smile bewitching, 
On my word and honor, 

Lighted all the kitchen \ 

With a curtsy neat 

Greeting the new comer, 
Lovely, smiling Peg 

Offers me the rummer ; 
But my trembling hand 

Up the beaker tilted, 
And the glass of ale 

Every drop I spilt it : 
Spilt it every drop 

(Dames, who read my volumes, 
Pardon such a word,) 

On my wliatd'ycairems ! 

Witnessing the sight 

Of that dire disaster. 
Out began to laugh 

Missis, maid, and master; 
Such a merry peal, 

'Specially Miss Peg's was, 
(As the glass of ale 

Trickling down my legs was), 
That the joyful sound 

Of that ringing laughter 
Echoed in my ears 

Many a long day after. 



288 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 



Such a silver peal ! 

In the meadows listenhig, 
You who've heard the bells 

Ringing to a christening ; 
You who ever heard 

Caradori pretty, 
Smiling like an angel 

Singing " Giovinetti," 
Fancy Peggy's laugh, 

Sweet, and clear and cheerful, 
At my pantaloons 

With half a pint of beer full ! 

When the laugh was done, 

Peg, the pretty hussy, 
Moved about the room 

Wonderfully busy ; 
Now she looks to see 

If the kettle keep hot, 
Now she rubs the spoons, 

Now she cleans the teapot ; 
Now she sets the cups 

Trimly and secure. 
Now she scours a pot 

And so it was I draw her. 



Thus it was I drew her 

Scouring of a kettle.* 
(Faith ! her blushing cheeks 

Redden'd on the metal!) 
Ah ! but 'tis in vain 

That I try to sketch it ; 
The pot perhaps is like, 

But Peggy's face is wretched. 
No : the best of lead, 

And of Indian-rubber, 
Never could depict 

That sAveet kettle-scrubber ! 

See her as she moves ! 

Scarce the ground she touches, 
Airy as a fay. 

Graceful as a duchess; 
Bare her rounded arm, 

Bare her little leg is, 
Vestris never show'd 

Ankles like to Peggy's : 
Braided is her hair, 

Soft her look and modest, 
Slim her little waist 

Comfortably bodiced. 



This I do declare, 

Happy is the laddy 
Who the heart can share 

Of Peg of Limavaddy ; 
Married if she were. 

Blest would be the daddy 
Of the children fair 

Of Peg of Limavaddy ; 
Beauty is not rare 

In the land of Paddy, 
Fair beyond compare 

Is Peg of Limavaddy. 



Citizen or squire, 

Tory, Whig, or Radi- 
cal would all desire 

Peg of Limavaddy. 
Had I Homer's fire. 

Or that of Sergeant Taddy, 
Meetly I'd admire 

Peg of Limavaddy. 
And till I expire. 

Or till I grow mad, I 
Will sing unto my lyre 

Peg of Limavaddy ! 



* The late Mr. Pope represents Camilla as "scouring the plain" an 
absurd and useless task. Peggy's occupation with the kettle is much 
more simple and noble. The second line of this verse (whereof the author 
scorns to deny an obligation) is from the celebrated "Frithiof " of Esaias 
Tigner. A maiden is serving warriors to drink, and is standing by a shield 
— " Und die Runde des Schildes ward wie das Magdelein roth," — perhaps 
the above is the best thing in both poems. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 2^9 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

TEMPLEMOYLE — DERRT. 

From Newtown Limavaddy to Deny the traveller has many 
wild and noble prospects of Lough Foyle and the plains and 
mountains round it, and of scenes which may possibl}^ in this 
country be still more agreeable to him — of smiling cultivation, 
and comfortable well-built villages, such as are onl}- too rare in 
Ireland. Of a great part of this district the London Com- 
panies are landlords — the best of landlords, too, according to 
the report I could gather ; and their good stewardship shows 
itself especial!}' in the neat villages of Muff and Ballikell}^ 
through both of which I passed. In Balhkelh^, besides numer- 
ous simple, stout, brick-built dwellings for the peasantr}^ with 
their shining windows and trim garden-plots, is a Presbyterian 
meeting-house, so well-built, substantial, and handsome, so 
different from the lean, pretentious, sham-Gothic ecclesiastical 
edifices which have been erected of late 3'ears in Ireland, that 
it can't fail to strike the tourist who has made architecture his 
study or his pleasure. The gentlemen's seats in the district are 
numerous and handsome ; and the whole movement along the 
road betokened cheerfulness and prosperous activit}^ 

As the carman had no other passengers but myself, he made 
no objection to cany me a couple of miles out of his way, 
through the village of Muff, belonging to the Grocers of Lon- 
don (and so handsomeU' and comfortably built b}' them as to 
cause all Cockneys to exclaim, "Well done our side!") and 
thence to a \evy interesting institution, which was established 
some fifteen 3'ears since in the neighborhood — the Agricultural 
Seminary of Templemoyle. It lies on a hill in a pretty wooded 
countr}', and is most curiously secluded from the world by the 
tortuousness of the road which approaches it. 

Of course it is not my business to report upon the agricul- 
tural system practised there, or to discourse on the state of the 
land or the crops ; the best testimony on this subject is the fact, 
that the Institution hired, at a small rental, a tract of land, 
which was reclaimed and farmed, and that of this farm the • 
landlord has now taken possession, leaving the young farmers 
to labor on a new tract of land, for which the}' pay five times 
as much rent as for their former holding. But though a person 

19 



290 THIi IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

versed in agriculture could give a far more satisfactory account 
of the place than one to whom such pursuits are quite un- 
familiar, there is a great deal about the establishment which 
an}' citizen can remark on ; and he must be a very difficult 
Cocknej' indeed who won't be pleased here. 

After winding in and out, and up and down, and round 
about the eminence on which the house stands, we at last found 
an entrance to it, by a court-3^ard, neat, well-built, and spacious, 
where are the stables and numerous offices of the farm. The 
scholars were at dinner off a comfortable meal of boiled beef, 
potatoes, and cabbages, when I arrived ; a master was reading 
a book of histor}^ to them ; and silence, it appears, is preserved 
during the dinner. Seventy scholars were here assembled, 
some young, and some expanded into six feet and whiskers — 
all, however, are made to maintain exactly the same discipline, 
whether whiskered or not. 

The '' head farmer" of the school, Mr. Campbell, a very 
intelligent Scotch gentleman, was good enough to conduct me 
over the place and the farm, and to give a history of the estab- 
lishment and the course pursued there. The Seminary was 
founded in 1827, b}^ the North-west of Ireland Society, by 
members of which and others about three tliousand pounds were 
subscribed, and the buildings of the school erected. These are 
spacious, simple, and comfortable ; there is a good stone house, 
with airy dormitories, school-rooms, &c., and large and con- 
venient offices. The establishment had, at first, some diffi- 
culties to contend with, and for some time did not number 
more than thirt}^ pupils. At present, there are seventy schol- 
ars, paying ten pounds a 3'ear, with which sum, and the labor 
of the pupils on the farm, and the produce of it, the school is 
entirely supported. The reader will, perhaps, like to see an 
extract from the Report of the school, which contains more 
details regarding it. 

"TEMPLEMOYLE WORK AND SCHOOL TABLE. 

" From 20th March to 2Srd September. 

" Boys divided into two classes, A and B. 
Hours. At work. At school 

5^ — All rise. 

6-8 A B 

8—9 Breakfast. 

9—1 A B 

1 — 2 Dinner and recreation. 

2—6 B A 

6 — 7 Recreation. 

7—9 Prepare lessons for next day. 

9— To bed. 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 291 

" On Tuesday B commences work in the morning and A at school, and 
80 on alternate days. 

"Each class is again subdivided into three divisions, over each of which 
is placed a monitor, selected from the steadiest and best-informed boys ; he 
receives the Head Farmer's directions as to the work to be done, and super- 
intends his party while performing it. 

" In winter the time of labor is shortened according to the length of the 
day, and the hours at school increased. 

" In wet days, when the boys cannot work out, all are required to 
attend school. 

" Dietary. 

" Breakfast. — Eleven ounces of oatmeal made in stirabout, one pint of 
sweet milk. 

"Dinner. — Sunday — Three-quarters of a pound of beef stewed with 
pepper and onions, or one half-pound of corned beef with cabbage, and 
three and a half pounds of potatoes. 

" Monday — One half-pound of pickled beef, three and a half pounds 
of potatoes, one pint of buttermilk. 

"Tuesday — Broth made of one half-pound of beef, with leeks, cab- 
bages, and parsley, and three and a half pounds of potatoes. 

"Wednesday — Two ounces of butter, eight ounces of oatmeal made 
into bread, three and a half pounds of potatoes, and one pint of sweet milk. 

" Thursday — Half a pound of pickled pork, with cabbage or turnips, 
and three and a half pounds of potatoes. 

" Friday — Two ounces of butter, eight ounces wheat meal made into 
bread, one pint of sweet milk or fresh buttermilk, three and a half pounds 
of potatoes. 

" Saturday — Two ounces of butter, one pound of potatoes mashed, 
eight ounces of wheat meal made into bread, two and a half pounds of po- 
tatoes, one pint of buttermilk. 

" Supper. — In summer, flummery made of one pound of oatmeal seeds, 
and one pint of sweet milk. In winter, three and a half pounds of pota- 
toes, and one pint of buttermilk or sweet milk. 

"Rules for the Templemoyle School. 

" 1. The pupils are required to say their prayers in the morning, before 
leaving the dormitory, and at night, before retiring to rest, each separately, 
and after the manner to which he has been habituated. 

" 2. The pupils are requested to wash their hands and faces before the 
commencement of business in the morning, on returning from agricultural 
labor, and after dinner. 

" 3. The pupils are required to pay the strictest attention to their in- 
structors, both during the hours of agricultural and literary occupation. 

" 4. Strife, disobedience, inattention, or any description of riotous or 
disorderly conduct, is punishable by extra labor or confinement, as directed 
by the Committee, according to circumstances. 

" 5. Diligent and respectful behavior, continued for a considerable time, 
will be rew't.i'ded by occasional permission for the pupil so distinguished to 
visit his home. 

" 6. No pupil, on obtaining leave of absence, shall presume to continue 
it for a longer period than that prescribed to him on leaving the Seminary. 

" 7. During their rural labor, the pupils are to consider themselves 
amenable to the authority of their Agricultural Instructor alone, and during 



292 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

their attendance in the school-room, to that of their Literary Instructor 
alone. 

" 8. I^on-attendance during any part of the time allotted either for 
literary or agricultural employment, will be punished as a serious offence. 

*' 9. During the hours of recreation the i)upiis are to he under the super- 
intendence of their Instructors, and not suffered to pass beyond tlie limits 
of the farm, except under their guidance, or with a written permission 
from one of them. 

" 10. Tlie pupils are required to make up their beds, and keep those 
clothes not in immediate use neatly folded up in their trunks, and to be 
particular in never suffering any garment, book, implement, or other article 
belonging to or used by them, to lie about in a slovenly or disorderly 
manner. 

"11. Respect to superiors, and gentleness of demeanor, both among 
the pupils themselves and towards the servants and laborers of the estab- 
lishment, are particularly insisted upon, and will be considered a prominent 
ground of approbation and reward. 

" 12. On Sundays the pupils are required to attend their respective 
places of worship, accompanied bj'' their Instructors or Monitors ; and it is 
earnestly recommended to them to employ a part of the remainder of the 
day in sincerely reading the Word of God, and in such other devotional 
exercises as their respective ministers may point out." 



At certain periods of the ,year, when all hands are required, 
such as harvest, &c., the literary labors of the scholars are 
stopped, and the^^ are all in the field. On the present occasion 
we followed them into a potato-field, where an army of them 
were employed digging out the potatoes ; while another regi- 
ment were trenching-in elsewhere for the winter : the boj's 
were leading the carts to and fro. To reach the potatoes we 
had to pass a field, part of which was newl}^ ploughed : the 
ploughing was the work of the boj^s, too ; one of them being 
left with an experienced ploughman for a fortnight at a time, 
in which space the lad can acquire some practice in the art. 
Amongst the potatoes and the boys digging them, I observed 
a number of girls, taking them up as dug and removing the soil 
from the roots. Such a society for seventy young men would, 
in any other country in the world, be not a little dangerous ; but 
Mr. Campbell said that no instance of harm had ever occurred 
in consequence, and I believe his statement may be fully relied 
on : the whole countiy bears testimony to this noble purity of 
morals. Is there any other in Europe which in this point can 
compare with it? 

In winter the farm works do not occupj- the pupils so much, 
and the}^ give more time to their literarj' studies. Thej get 
a good English education ; the}' are grounded in arithmetic 
and mathematics ; and I saw a good map of an adjacent farm, 
made from actual survey by one of the pupils, Some of 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 293 

them are good draughtsmen likewise, but of their performances 
I could see no specimen, the artists being abroad, occupied 
wisely in digging the potatoes. 

And here, apj'opos, not of the school but of potatoes, let me 
tell a potato story, which is, I think, to the purpose, wherever 
it is told. In the county of Mayo a gentleman by the name of 
Crofton is a landed proprietor, in whose neighborhood great 
distress prevailed among the peasantr}' during the spring and 
summer, when the potatoes of the last }'ear were consumed, and 
before those of the present season were up. Mr. Crofton, bj' 
liberal donations on his own part, and by a subscription which 
was set on foot among his friends in England as well as in Ire- 
land, was enabled to collect a sum of mone}' sufficient to pur- 
chase meal for the people, which was given to them, or sold at 
ver}' low prices, until the pressure of want was withdrawn, and 
the blessed potato-crop came in. Some time in October, a 
smart night's frost made Mr. Crofton think that it was time to 
take in and pit his own potatoes, and he told his steward to get 
laborers accordingi3^ 

Next day. on going to the potato-grounds, he found the 
whole fields swarming with people ; the whole crop was out of 
the ground, and again under it, pitted and covered, and the 
people gone, in a few hours. It was as if the fairies that we 
read of in the Irish legends, as coming to the aid of good peo- 
ple and helping them in their labors, had taken a liking to this 
good landlord, and taken in his harvest for him. Mr. Crofton, 
who knew who his helpers had been, sent the steward to pay 
them their day's wages, and to thank them at the same time 
for having come to help him at a time when their labor was so 
useful to him. One and all refused a penn}^ ; and their spokes- 
man said. " They wished they could do more for the likes of 
him or his family." I have heard of many conspiracies in this 
country ; is not this one as worthy to be told as an3^ of them ? 

Round the house of Templemoyle is a pretty garden, which 
the pupils take pleasure in cultivating, filled not with fruit (for 
this, though there are seventy gardeners, the superintendent said 
somehow seldom reached a ripe state), but with kitchen herbs, 
and a few beds of pretty flowers, such as are best suited to 
cottage horticulture. Such simple carpenters' and masons' 
work as the young men can do is likewise confided to them ; 
and though the dietary may appear to the Englishman as 
rather a scanty one, ancl though the English lads certainly 
make at first very wr}' faces at the stirabout porridge (as they 
naturall}^ will when first put in the presence of that abominable 



294 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

mixture) f 3^et, after a time, strange to say, they begin to find it 
actual!}' palatable ; and the best proof of the excellence of the 
diet is, that nobody is ever ill in the institution ; colds and 
fevers and the ailments of lazj^ gluttonous gentilitjs are un- 
known ; and the doctor's bill for the last year, for seventy 
pupils, amounted to thirt3^-five shillings. beati agricoliculce ! 
You do not know what it is to feel a little uneasy after half a 
crown's worth of rrwpberry- tarts, as lads do at the best public 
schools ; 3'ou don't know in what majestic polished hexameters 
the Roman poet has described your pursuits ; 3'Ou are not 
fagged and flogged into Latin and Greek at the cost of two 
handred pounds a year. Let these be the privileges of 3^our 
youthful i3etters ; meanwhile content 3^ourselves with thinking 
that you are preparing for a profession, while the3' are not ; that 
3'ou are learning something useful, while the3^, for the most 
part, are not : for after all, as a man grows old in the world, 
old and fat, cricket is discovered not to be any longer ver}^ 
advantageous to him — even to have pulled in the Trinity boat 
does not in old age amount to a substantial advantage ; and 
though to read a Greek pla3^ be an immense pleasure, yet it 
must be confessed few enjoy it. In the first place, of the race 
of Etonians, and Harrovians, and Carthusians that one meets 
in the world, very few can read the Greek; of those few — 
there are not, as I believe, an3' considerable majority of poets. 
Stout men in the bow-windows of clubs (for such young Eto- 
nians by time become) are not generally remarkable for a taste 
for ^schylus.* You do not hear much poetr3^ in Westminster 
Hall, or 1 believe at the bar-tables afterwards ; and if occa- 
sionalh^ in the House of Commons, vSir Robert Peel lets off a 
quotation — a pocket-pistol wadded with a leaf torn out of 
Horace — depend on it it is onl}' to astonish the country gen- 
tlemen who don't understand him : and it is m3^ firm conviction 
that Sir Robert no more cares for poetr3' than you or I do. 

Such thoughts would suggest themselves to a man who has 
had the benefit of what is called an education at a public school 
in England, when he sees sevent3^ lads from all parts of the 
empire learning what his Latin poets and philosophers have 
informed him is the best of all pursuits, — finds them educated 
at one-twentieth part of the cost which has been bestowed on 
his own precious person ; orderl3' without the necessit3' of sub- 
mitting to degrading personal punishment ; 3'oung, and full of 

* And then, how much Latin and Gr#ek does the public school-boy 
know ? Also, does he know anything else, and what ? Is it history, or 
geography, or mathematics, or divinity 1 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 295 

health and blood, though vice is unknown among them ; and 
brought up decently and honestly to know the things which it 
is good for tliem in their profession to know. So it is, how- 
ever ; all the world is improving except tlie gentlemen. There 
are at this present writing five hundred boys at Eton, kicked, 
and licked, and bullied, by another hundred — scrubbing shoes, 
running errands, making false concords, and (as if that were a 
natural consequence!) putting their posteriors on a block for 
Dr. Hawtrey to lash at ; and stift calling it education. They 
are proud of it — good heavens ! — absolutely vain of it ; as 
what dull barbarians are not proud of their dulness and bar- 
barism ? Tills}' call it the good old English system : nothing 
like classics, says Sir John", to give a boy a taste, j'ou kiiow, 
and a habit of reading — (Sir John, who reads the " Racing 
Calendar," and belongs to a race of men of all the world the 
least given to reading,) — it's the good old English system; 
every boy fights for himself — hardens 'em, eh, Jack? Jack 
grins, and helps himself to another glass of claret, and pres- 
ently tells you how Tibbs and Miller fought for an hour and 
twenty minutes " like good uns." . . . Let us come to an end, 
however, of this moralizing ; the car-driver has brought the old 
raw-shouldered horse out of the stable, and says it is time to 
be off again. 

Before quitting Templemoj'le, one thing more may be said 
in its favor. It is one of the very few public establishments in 
Ireland where pupils of the two religious denominations are 
received, and where no religious disputes have taken place. 
The pupils are called upon, morning and evening, to say their 
prayers privately. On Sunday, each division, Presbyterian, 
Roman Catholic, and Episcopalian, is marched to its proper 
place of worship. The pastors of each sect ma}' visit their 
young flock when 'so inclined ; and the lads devote the Sabbath 
evening to reading the books pointed out to them by their 
clerg3'men. 

Would not the Agricultural Society of Ireland, of the sue • 
cess of whose peaceful labors for the national prosperitj' ever} 
Irish newspaper I read brings some new indication, do well to 
show some mark of its sympathy for this excellent institution 
of Templemoyle ? A silver medal given by the Societ}^ to the 
most deserving pupil of the year, would be a great object of 
emulation amongst the young men educated at the place, and 
would be almost a certain passport for the winner in seeking 
for a situation in after life. I do not know if similar semi- 
naries exist in England. Other seminaries of a like nature 



296 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

have been tried in this country, and have failed : but English 
country gentlemen cannot, I should think, find a better object 
of their attention than this school; and our farmers would 
surely find such establishments of great benefit to them : where 
their children might procure a sound literary education at a 
small charge, and at the same time be made acquainted with 
the latest improvements in their profession. I can't help say- 
ing here, once more, what I have said apropos of the excellent 
school at Dundalk, and beg^ng the English middle classes to 
think of the subject. If Government will not act (upon what 
never can be effectual, perhaps, until it become a national 
measure), let small communities act for themselves, and trades- 
men and the middle classes set up cheap proprietary schools. 
Will country newspaper editors, into whose hands this book 
may fall, be kind enough to speak upon this hint, and extract 
the tables of the Templemoyle and Dundalk estabUshments, to 
show how, and with what small means, bo3'S may be well, 
soundly, and humanely educated — not brutally, as some of us 
have been, under the bitter fagging and the shameful rod. It 
is no plea for the barbarity that use has made us accustomed to 
it ; and in seeing these institutions for humble lads, where the 
system taught is at once useful, manly, and kindly, and think- 
ing of what I had undergone in my own youth, — of the frivo- 
lous monkish trifling in which it was wasted, of the brutal 
tyranny to which it was subjected, — I could not look at the 
lads but with a sort of envy : please God, their lot will be 
shared by thousands of their equals and their betters before 
long! 

It was a proud day for Dundalk, Mr. Thackeray well said, 
when, at the end of one of the vacations there, fourteen Eng- 
lish boys, and an Englishman with his httle son in his hand, 
landed from the Liverpool packet, and, walking through the 
streets of the town, went into the school-house quite happy. 
That was a proud day in truth for a distant Irish town, and I 
can't help saying that I grudge them the cause of their pride 
somewhat. Why should there not be schools in England as 
good, and as cheap, and as happy? 

With this, shaking Mr. Campbell gratefully by the hand, 
and begging all English tourists to go and visit his establish- 
ment, we trotted off for Londonderry, leaving at about a mile's 
distance from the town, and at the pretty lodge of Saint 
Columb's, a letter, which was the cause of much delightful 
hospitality. 

Saint Columb's Chapel, the walls of which still stand pictu- 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 297 

resquely in Sir George Hill's park, and from which that gentle- 
man's seat takes its name, was here since the sixth centurj-. 
It is but fair to give precedence to tlie mention of the old 
abbey, which was the father, as it would seem, of the town. 
The approach to the latter from three quarters, certainly, by 
which various avenues I had occasion to see it, is always noble. 
We had seen the spire of the cathedral peering over the hills 
for four miles on our way ; it stands, a stalwart and handsome 
building, upon an eminence, round which the old-fashioned 
stout red houses of the town cluster, girt in with the ramparts 
and walls that kept out James's soldiers of old. Quays, fac- 
tories, huge red warehouses, have grown round this famous old 
barrier, and now stretch along the river. A couple of large 
steamers and other craft lay within the bridge ; and, as we 
passed over that stout wooden edifice, stretching eleven hun- 
dred feet across the noble expanse of the Foyle, we heard 
along the quays a great thundering and clattering of iron- work 
in an enormous steam frigate which has been built in Derry, 
and seems to lie alongside a whole street of houses. The 
suburb, too, through which we passed was bustling and com- 
fortable ; and the view was not only pleasing from its natural 
beauties, but has a manly, thriving, honest air of prosperity, 
which is no bad feature, surely, for a landscape. 

Nor does the town itself, as one enters it, belie, as many other 
Irish towns do, its first flourishing look. It is not splendid, 
but comfortable ; a brisk movement in the streets : good down- 
right shops, without particularly grand titles ; few beggars. 
Nor have the common people, as they address you, that eager 
smile, — that manner of compound fawning and swaggering, 
which an Englishman finds in the townspeople of the West and 
South. As in the North of England, too, when compared with 
other districts, the people are greatly more familiar, though by 
n9 means disrespectful to the stranger. 

On the other hand, after such a commerce as a traveller has 
with the race of waiters, postboys, porters, and the like (and 
it may be that the vast race of postboys, &c., whom I did not 
see in the North, are quite unlike those unlucky specimens 
with whom I came in contact), I was struck by their excessive 
greediness after the traveller's gratuities, and their fierce dis- 
satisfaction if not sufficiently rewarded. To the gentleman 
who brushed my clothes at the comfortable hotel at Belfast, 
and carried my bags to the coach, I tendered the sum of two 
shillings, which seemed to me quite a sufficient reward for his 
services : he battled and brawled with me for more, and got it 



298 THE miSII SKETCH BOOK. 

too ; for a street-dispute with a porter calls together a number 
of delighted bystanders, whose remarks and compan}^ are by no 
means agreeable to a solitary gentleman. Then, again, there 
was the famous case of Boots of Ball^'castle, which, being upon 
the subject, I may as well mention here : Boots of Ballycastle, 
that romantic little village near the Giant's Causeway, had 
cleaned a pair of shoes for me certainl}', but declined either 
to brush my clothes, or to carry down my two carpet-bags to 
the car ; leaving me to perform those offices for m3'self, which 
I did : and indeed they were not very difficult. But immedi- 
atelj' I was seated on tlie car, Mr. Boots stepped forward and 
wrapped a mackintosh very consideratel}^ round me, and begged 
me at the same time to "• remember him." 

There was an old beggar-woman standing b}^ to whom I had 
a desire to pi'esent a penn}' ; and having no coin of that value, 
I begged Mr. Boots, out of a sixpence which I tendered to 
him, to subtract a penn}', and present it to the old lad}^ in 
question. Mr. Boots took the mone}', looked at me, and his 
countenance, not natural!}' good-humored, assumed an expres- 
sion of the most indignant contempt and hatred as he said, 
" I'm thinking I've no call to give m}^ mone}' away. Sixpence 
is m3' right for what I've done." 

" Sir," says I, " 3'ou must remember that 3'ou did but black 
one pair of shoes, and that you blacked them very badly too." 

"Sixpence is m}" right," sa3's Boots; ''' a gentle ?na}i would 
give me sixpence ! " and though I represented to him that a 
pair of shoes might be blacked in a minute — that fivepence 
a minute was not usual wages in the countr3^ — that many 
gentlemen, half-pay officers, briefless barristers, unfortunate 
literar3' gentlemen, would gladly black twelve pairs of shoes per 
diem if rewarded with five shillings for so doing, there was no 
means of convincing Mr Boots. I then demanded back the 
sixpence, which proposal, however, he declined, saying, after a 
struggle, he would give the mone3% but a gentleman would 
ha^'e given sixpence : and so left me with furious rage and 
contempt. 

As for the cit3' of Derr3', a carman who drove me one mile 
out to dinner at a gentleman's house, where he himself was 
provided with a comfortable meal, was dissatisfied with eigh- 
teenpence, vowing that a " dinner job " was always paid half a 
crown, and not only asserted this, but continued to assert it for 
a quarter of an hour with the most noble though unsuccessful 
perseverance. A second car-boy, to whom I gave a shilling for 
a drive of two miles altogether, attacked me because I gave the 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 299 

other bo,y eigliteenpence ; and the porter who brought my bags 
fifty yards from the coach, entertained me with a dialogue that 
lasted at least a couple of minutes, and said, ' I should have had 
sixpence for carrying one of 'em." 

For the car which carried me two miles the landlord of the 
inn made me pay the sum of five shilhngs. He is a godl}- land- 
lord, has Bibles in the coflfee-room, the drawing-room, and every 
bedroom in the house, with this inscription — 

UT MIGRATURUS HABITA. 

THE traveller's TRUE REFUGE. 

Jones's Hotel, Londonderry. 

This pious double or triple entendre, the reader will, no 
doubt, admire — the first simile establishing the resemblance 
between this life and an inn ; the second allegory showing that 
the inn and the Bible are both the traveller's refuge. 

In life we are in death — the hotel in question is about as 
gay as a family vault : a severe figure of a landlord, in seedy 
black, is occasionally seen in the dark passages or on the 
creaking old stairs of the black inn. He does not bow to you 

— ver}^ few landlords in Ireland condescend to acknowledge 
their guests — he only warns you : — a silent solemn gentleman 
who looks to be something between a clergyman and a sexton 

— '' ut migraturus habita ! " — the " migraturus " was. a vast 
comfort -in the clause. 

It must, however, be said, for the consolation of future trav- 
ellers, that when at evening, in the old lonely parlor of the 
inn, the great gaunt fireplace is filled with coals, two dreary 
funereal candles and sticks glimmering upon the old fashioned 
round table, the rain pattering fiercely without, the wind roar- 
ii^ and thumping in the streets, this worth}' gentleman can pro- 
ouce a pint of port- wine for the use of his migratory guest, 
which causes the latter to be almost reconciled to the cemetery 
in which he is resting himself, and he finds himself, to his sur- 
prise, almost cheerful. There is a mouldy-looking old kitchen, 
too, which, strange to sa}', sends out an excellent comfortable 
dinner, so that the sensation of fear gradually wears off. 

As in Chester, the ramparts of the town form a pleasant 
promenade ; and the batteries, with a few of the cannon, are 
preserved, with which the stout 'prentice boys of Dcrry beat off 
King James in '88. The guns bear the names of the London 
Companies — venerable Cockney titles ! It is pleasant for a 



300 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

Londoner to read them, and see how, at a pinch, the sturdy 
citizens can do their work. 

The pubUc buildings of Derry are, I think, among the best 
I have seen in Ireland ; and the Lunatic As3'lum, especiahy, is 
to be pointed out as a model of neatness and comfort. When 
will the middle classes be allowed to send their own afflicted 
relatives to public institutions of this excellent kind, where 
violence is never practised — where it is never to the interest of 
the keeper of the as3'lum to exaggerate his patient's malad}', or 
to retain him in durance, for the sake of the enormous ^ms 
which the suflerer's relatives are made to pa}- ! The gentr^^ of 
three counties which contribute to the Asylum have no such 
resource for members of their own bod}^, should au}^ be so 
afflicted — the condition of entering this admirable asylum is, 
that the patient must be a pauper, and on this account he is 
supplied with every comfort and the best curative means, and 
his relations are in perfect security. Are the rich in any way 
so luck}^ ? — and if not, why not ? 

The rest of the occurrences at Derry belong, unhappily, to 
the domain of private life, and though verj^ pleasant to recall, 
are not honestly to be printed. Otherwise, what popular de- 
scriptions might be written of the hospitalities of St. Columb's, 
of the jovialities of the mess of the — th Regiment, of the 
speeches made and the songs sung, and the devilled turkey at 
twelve o'clock, and the headache afterwards ; all which events 
could be described in an exceedingly facetious manner. But 
these amusements are to be met with in ever}' other part of her 
Majesty's dominions ; and the only point which ma}' be men- 
tioned here as peculiar to this part of Ireland, is the difference 
of the manner of the gentry to that in the South. The North- 
ern manner is far more English than that of the other provinces 
of Ireland — whether it is better for being English is a ques- 
tion of taste, of which an Englishman can scarcely be a f^ 
judge. ^ 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 301 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

DUBLIN AT LAST. 

A WEDDING-PARTY that weiit across Derry Bridge to the 
sound of bell and cannon, had to flounder through a thick coat 
of fit)zen snow, that covered the slippery planks, and the hills 
round about were whitened over by the same inclement material. 
Nor was the weather, implacable towards ^oung lovers and un- 
happy buckskin postilions shivering in white favors, at all more 
polite towards the passengers of her Majesty's mail that runs' 
from Deny to Ball3shannon. 

Hence the aspect of the countr}^ between those two places 
can onh' be described at the rate of nine miles an hour, and 
from such points of observation as may be had through a coach 
window, starred with ice and mud. While horses were changed 
we saw a very dirty town, called Strabane ; and had to visit the 
old house of the O'Donnel's in Donegal during a quarter of an 
hour's pause that the coach made there — and with an umbrella 
overhead. The pursuit of the picturesque under umbrellas let 
us leave to more venturesome souls : the fine weather of the 
finest season known for many long years in Ireland was over, 
and 1 thought with a great deal of yearning of Pat the waiter, 
at the '' Shelburne Hotel," Stephen's Green, Dublin, and the 
gas-lamps, and the covered cars, and the good dinners to which 
they take you. 

Farewell, then, O wild Donegal ! and ye stern passes 
through which the astonished traveller windeth ! Farewell, 
Ball^'shannon, and thy salmon-leap, and thy bar of sand, over 
which the white head of the troubled Atlantic was peeping ! 
Likewise, adieu to Lough Erne, and its numberless green 
islands, and winding river-lake, and wav}' fir-clad hills ! Good- 
by, moreover, neat Enniskillen, over the bridge and churches 
whereof the sun peepeth as the coach staiteth from the inn ! 
See, how he shines now on Lord Belmore's stately palace and 
park, with gleaming porticos and brilliant grassy chases : now, 
behold he is yet higher in the heavens, as the twanging horn 
proclaims the approach to beggarly Cavan, where a beggarly 
breakfast awaits the hungry voyager. 

Snatching up a roll wherewith to satisf}' the pangs of hun- 
ger, sharpened by the njockery of breakfast, the tourist now 



302 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

hastens in his arduous course, through Virginia, Kells, Na- 
van, by Tara's threadbare mountain, and Skreen's green 
hill ; da)' darkens, and a hundred thousand lamps twinkle in 
the gray horizon — see above the darkling trees a stump}' col- 
umn rise, see on its base the name of Wellington (though this, 
because 'tis night, thou canst not 3ee), and cr}', "It is the 
Phaynix!'' — On and on, across the iion bridge, and through 
the streets, (dear streets, though dirty, to the citizen's heart 
how dear 3'ou be !) and lo, now, with a bump, the dirt}' coach 
stops at the seedy inn, six ragged porters battle for the bags, 
six wheedling carmen recommend their cars, and (giving first 
the coachman eighteenpence) the Cockney says, " Drive, car- 
bo3% to the ' Shelburne.' " 

And so having reached Dublin, it becomes necessary to cur- 
tail the observations which were to be made upon that cit}^ ; 
w^hich surely ought to have a volume to itself: the humors of 
Dublin at least require so much space. For instance, there 
was the dinner at the Kildare Street Club, or the Hotel oppo- 
site, — the dinner in Trinity College Hall, — that at Mr.' , 

the publisher's, where a dozen of the literf^ry men of Ireland 
were assembled, — and those (say fifty) with Harry Lorrequer 
himself, at his mansion of Templeogue. AVhat a favorable op- 
portunity to discourse upon the pecuharities of Irish character! 
to describe men of letters, of fashion, and university dons ! 

Sketches of these personages ma}' be prepared, and sent 
over, perhaps, in confidence to Mrs. Sigourney in America — 
(w'ho will of course not print them) — but the English habit 
does not allow of these happy communications between waiters 
and the public ; and the author who v/ishes to dine again at his 
friend's cost, must needs have a care how he puts him in print. 

Suffice it to say, that at Kildare Stre^it we had white neck- 
cloths, black w^ajters, wax-candles, and sorje of the best wine 

in Europe ; at Mr. , the publisher'.^, wax-candles, and some 

of the best wine in Europe ; at Mr. Tjcvar's, wax-candles, and 
some of the best wine in Europe ; at Trinity College — but 
there is no need to mention wliat took plp.ce at Trinity College ; 
for on returning to London, and recountnig the circumstances 

of the repast, my friend B , a Master of Arts of that uni- 

A^ersit}', solemnly declared the thing was impossible : — no 
stranger could dine at Trinity College ; it was too great a privi- 
lege — in a word, he would not believe the story, nor will he to 
this day ; and why, therefore, tell it in vain? 

I am sure if the .Fellows of Colleges in Oxford and Cam- 
bridge were told that the Fellows of T. CD. only drink beer 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 303 

at dinner, they would not believe that. Such, however, was the 
fact : or may be it was a dream, which was followed by another 
dream of about four-and-twent}^ gentlemen seated round a com- 
mon-room table after dinner ; and, by a subsequent vision of a 
tray of oysters in the apartments of a tutor of the universit}^ 
sometime before midnight. Did we swallow them or not? — 
the oysters are an open question. 

Of the Catholic College of Maynooth, I must likewise speak 
briefly, for the reason that an accurate description of that es- 
tablishment would be of necessit}^ so disagreeable, that it is best 
to pass it over in a few words. An Irish union-house is a palace 
to it. Ruin so needless, filth so disgusting, such a look of 
lazy squalor, no Englishman who has not seen can conceive. 
Lecture-room and dining-hall, kitchen and students'-room, were 
all the same. I shall never forget the sight of scores of shoul- 
ders of mutton lying on the filthy floor in the former, or the 
view of a bed and dressing-table that I saw in the other. Let 
the next Maynooth grant include a few shillings'-worth of white- 
wash and a few hundredweights of soap ; and if to this be 
added a half-score of drill-sergeants, to see that the students 
appear clean at lecture, and to teach them to keep their heads 
up and to look people in the face. Parliament will introduce 
some cheap reforms into the seminary, which were never needed 
more than here. Why should the place be so shamefullj^ ruin- 
ous and foull}^ dirt}^? Lime is cheap, and water plenty at the 
canal hard by. Why should a stranger, after a week's sta}" in 
the countr3^ be able to discover a priest by the scowl on his 
face, and his doubtful downcast manner? Is it a point of dis- 
cipline that his reverence should be made to look as ill-humored 
as possible ? And I hope these words will not be taken hos- 
tilely. It would have been quite as easy, and more pleasant, 
to say the contrary, had the contrar}^ seemed to me to have 
been the fact ; and to have declared that the priests were re- 
markable for their expression of candor, and their college for 
its extreme neatness and cleanliness. 

This complaint of neglect applies to other pubhc institutions 
besides Maynooth. The Mansion-house, when I saw it, was a 
ver}' dingy abode for the Right Honorable Lord Mayor, and that 
Loid Mayor Mr. O'Connell. I saw him in full council, in a 
brilliant robe of crimson velvet, ornamented with white satin 
bows and sable collar, in an enormous cocked-hat, like a slice 
of an eclipsed moon. 

The Aldernien and Common Council, in a black oak parlor, 
and at a dingy green table, were assembled around him, and a 



304 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

debate of thrilling interest to the town ensued. It related, I 
think', to water-pipes ; the great man did not speak publicly, 
but was occupied chiefl}^ at the end of the table, giving audi- 
ences to at least a score of clients and petitioners. 

The next da}^ I saw him in the famous Corn Exchange. The 
building without has a substantial look, but the hall within is 
rude, dirty, and ill-kept. Hundreds of persons were assembled 
in the black, steaming place ; no inconsiderable share of frieze- 
coats were among them ; and man}^ small Repealers, who could 
but latel}" have assumed their breeches, ragged as they were. 
These kept up a great chorus of shouting, and " hear, hear! " 
at every pause in the great Repealer's address. Mr. O'Connell 
was reading a report from his Repeal-wardens ; which proved 
that when Repeal took place, commerce and prosperity would 
instantly flow into the country ; its innumerable harbors would 
be filled with countless ships, its immense water-power would 
be directed to the turning of m3Tiads of mills ; its vast ener- 
gies and resources brought into full action. At the end of the 
report, three cheers were given for Repeal, and in the midst 
of a great shouting Mr. O'Connell leaves the room. 

" Mr. Quiglan, Mr. Quiglan ! " roars an active aide-de-camp 
to the door-keeper, " a covered kyar for the Lard Mayre." The 
covered car came ; 1 saw his lordship get into it. Next day 
he was Lord Mayor no longer ; but Alderman O'Connell in his 
state-coach, with the handsome grays whose manes were tied 
up with green ribbon, following the new Lord Mayor to the 
right honorable inauguration. Javelin men, city marshals 
(looking like military undertakers), private carriages, glass 
coaches, cars, covered and uncovered, and thousands of 3^ell- 
ing ragamuffins, formed the civic procession of that faded, 
worn-out, insolvent old Dublin Corporation. 

The walls of this city had been placarded with huge notices 
to the public, that O'Connell's rent-da}^ was at hand ; and I 
went round to all the chapels in town on that Sunday (not a 
httle to the scandal of some Protestant friends), to see the 
popular behavior. Every door was barred, of course, with 
plate-holders ; and heaps of pence at the humble entrances, and 
bank-notes at the front gates, told the willingness of the people 
to reward their champion. The car-boy who drove me had 
paid his little tribute of fourpence at morning mass ; the waiter 
who brought my breakfast had added to the national subscrip- 
tion with his humble shilling ; and the Catholic gentleman witji 
whom I dined, and between whom and Mr. O'Connell there is 
no great love lost, pays his annual donation, out of gratitudo 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 305 

for old services, and to the man who won Catholic Emancipa- 
tion for Ireland. The piet}' of the people at the chapels is a 
sight, too, always well worthy to behold. Nor indeed is this 
religious fervor less in the Protestant places of worship : the 
warmth and attention of the congregation, the enthusiasm with 
which h3'mns are sung and responses uttered, contrasts curi- 
ously' with the cool formality of worshippers at home. 

The service at St. Patrick's is finely sung ; and the shame- 
less EngUsh custom of retreating after the anthem, is property 
prevented by locking the gates, and having the music after the 
sermon. The interior of the cathedral itself, however, to an 
Enghshman who has seen the neat and beautiful edifices of his 
own country, will be anything but an object of admiration. The 
greater part of the huge old building is suffered to remain in 
gaunt decay, and with its stalls of sham Gothic, and the tawdr}^ 
old rags and gimcracks of the " most illustrious order of Saint 
Patrick," (whose pasteboard helmets, and calico banners, and 
lath swords, well characterize the humbug of chivalry which 
the}' are made to represent,) looks like a theatre behind the 
scenes. " Paddy's Opera," however, is a noble performance; 
and the Englishman may here listen to a half-hour sermon, and 
in the anthem to a bass singer whose voice is one of the finest 
ever heard. 

The Drama does not flourish much more in Dublin than in 
any other part of the country. Operatic stars make their ap- 
pearance occasionally, and managers lose mone}'. I was at a 
fine concert, at which Lablache and others performed, where 
there were not a hundred people in the pit of the pretty theatre, 
and where the onty encore given was to a young woman in 
ringlets and yellow satin, who stepped forward and sang, 
"Coming through the rye," or some other scientific composi- 
tion, in an exceedingl}^ small voice. On the nights when the 
regular drama was enacted, the audience was still smaller. The 
theatre of Fishamble Street was given up to the performances of 
the Rev. Mr. Gregg and his Protestant company, whose soirees 
I did not attend ; and, at the Abbe}^ Street Theatre, whither I 
went in order to see, if possible, some specimens of the national 
humor, I found a company of English people ranting through a 
melodrama, the tragedy whereof was the only laughable thing 
to be witnessed. 

Humbler popular recreations may be seen by the curious.. 
One night I paid twopence to see a puppet-show — such an 
entertainment as may have been popular a hundred and thirty 
years ago, and is described in the Spectator. But the company 

20 



306 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

here assembled were not, it scarcel}' need be said, of the 
genteel sort. There were a score of bo3's, however, and a 
dozen of laboring men, who were quite happy and contented 
with the piece performed, and loudl}' applauded. Then in pass- 
ing homewards of a night, 3'ou hear, at the humble public-houses, 
the sound of many a fiddle, and the stamp of feet dancing the 
good old jig, which is still maintaining a struggle with teetotal- 
ism, and, though vanquished now, may rail}' some day and 
overcome the enem}^ At Kingstown, especiall}^, the old '' fire- 
worshippers " yet seem to muster prett}^ strongly ; loud is the 
music to be heard in the taverns there, and the cries of encour- 
agement to the dancers. 

Of the numberless amusements that take place in the Phay- 
nix^ it is not very necessar}^ to speak. Here you may behold 
garrison races, and reviews ; lord-lieutenants in brown great- 
coats ; aides-de-camp scampering about like mad in blue ; fat 
colonels roaring "charge "to immense heav}' dragoons ; dark 
riflemen lining woods and firing ; galloping cannoneers banging 
and blazing right and left. Here comes his Excellency the 
Commander-in-Chief, with his huge feathers, and white hair, 
and hooked nose ; and yonder sits his Excellency the Ambassa- 
dor from the republic of Topinambo in a glass coach, smoking a 
cigar. The honest Dublinites make a great deal of such small 
dignitaries as his Excellenc}' of the glass coach ; 3'ou hear 
everybod}' talking of him, and asking which is he ; and when 
presentl}' one of Sir Robert Peel's sons makes his appearance 
on the course, the public rush delighted to look at him. 

The}' love great folks, those honest Emerald Islanders, more 
intenseh^ than any people I ever heard of, except the Ameri- 
cans. The}^ still cherish the memory of the sacred George IV._ 
The}^ chronicle genteel small beer with never-failing assiduity. 
The}^ go in long trains to a sham court — simpering in tights 
and bags, with swords between their legs. O heaven and earth, 
what joy ! Why are the Irish noblemen absentees ? If their 
lordships like respect, where would the}" get it so well as in 
their own country ? 

The Irish noblemen are very likely going through the same 
delightful routine of duty before their real sovereign ■ — in real 
tights and bag-wigs, as it were, performing their graceful and 
lofty duties, and celebrating the august service of the throne. 
These, of course, the truly loyal heart can only respect : and I 
think a drawing-room at St. James's the grandest spectacle that 
ever feasted the eye or exercised the intellect. The crown, 
surrounded by its knights and nobles, its priests, its sages, and 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 307 

their respective ladies ; illustrious foreigners, men learned in 
the law, heroes of land and sea, beef-eaters, gold-sticks, gentle- 
men-at-arms, rallj'ing round the throne and defending it with 
those swords which never knew defeat (and would surely, if 
tried, secure victory) : these are sights and characters which 
every man must look upon with a thrill of respectful awe, and 
count amongst the glories of his countr}^ What lady that sees 
this will not confess that she reads every one of the drawing- 
room costumes, from Majesty down to Miss Ann Maria Smith ; 
and all the names of the presentations, from Prince Baccabock-. 
sk^^ (by the Russian ambassador) to Ensign Stubbs on his ap- 
pointment? 

We are bound to read these accounts. It is our pride, our 
duty as Britons. But though one ma}^ honor the respect of the 
aristocrac}" of the land for the sovereign, yet there is no reason 
wh}' those who are not of the aristocracy should be aping their 
betters : and the Dublin Castle business has, I cannot but think, 
a ver}^ high-life-below-stairs look. There is no aristocracy in 
Dublin. Its magnates are tradesmen — Sir Fiat Haustus, Sir 
Blacker Dosy, Mr. Serjeant Bluebag, or Mr. Counsellor O'Fee. 
Brass plates are their titles of honor, and thej^ live by their 
boluses or their briefs. What call have these worth}' people to 
be dangling and grinning at lord-lieutenants' levees, and pla}^- 
ing sham aristocracy before a sham sovereign? Oh, that old 
humbug of a Castle ! It is the greatest sham of all the shams 
in Ireland. 

Although the season may be said to have begun, for the 
Courts are opened, and the noblesse de la robe have assembled, 
I do not think the genteel quarters of the town look much more 
cheerful. The}' still, for the most part, wear their faded ap- 
pearance and lean, half-pay look. There is the beggar still 
dawdling here and there. Sounds of carriages or footmen do 
not deaden the clink of the burly policeman's boot-heels. You 
may see, possibly, a smutt3^-faced nursemaid leading out her 
little charges to walk ; or the observer may catch a glimpse of 
Mick the footman lolling at the door, and grinning as he talks 
to some dubious tradesman. Mick and John are ver}' different 
characters externall}^ and inwardly ; — profound essays (involv- 
ing the histories of the two countries for a thousand years) 
might be written regarding Mick and John, and the moral and 
political influences which have developed the flunkies of the two 
nations. The friend, too, with whom Mick talks at the door is 
a puzzle to a Londoner. I have hardly ever entered a Dublin 
house without meeting with some such character on my way in 



308 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

or out. He looks too shabb}^ for a dun, and not exactly ragged 
enough for a beggar — a doubtful, lazy, dirty family vassal — 
a guerilla footman. I think it is he who makes a great noise, 
and whispering, and clattering, handing in the dishes to Mick 
from outside of the dining-room door. When an Irishman 
comes to London he brings Erin with him ; and ten to one 3'ou 
will find one of these queer retainers about his place. 

London one can onl}^ take leave of by degrees : the great 
town melts awa}^ into suburbs, which soften, as it were, the 
parting between the Cockney and his darling birthplace. But 
3'ou pass from some of the stately fine Dublin streets straight 
into the country. After No. 46, Eccles Street, for instance, 
potatoes begin at once. You are on a wide green plain, diver- 
sified by occasional cabbage-plots, by drying-grounds white with 
chemises, in the midst of which the chartered wind is rcA^elling ; 
and though in the map some fanciful engineer has laid down 
streets and squares, they exist but on paper ; nor, indeed, can 
there be any need of them at present, in a quarter where houses 
are not wanted so much as people to dwell in the same. 

If the genteel portions of the town look to the full as melan- 
choly as they did, the downright poverty ceases, I fear, to make 
so strong an impression as it made four months ago. Going 
over the same ground again, places appear to have quite a 
diff'erent aspect ; and, with their strangeness, poverty and 
misery have lost much of their terror. The people, though 
dirtier and more ragged, seem certainly happier than those in 
London. 

Near to the King's Court, for instance (a noble building, as 
are almost all the public edifices of the city), is a straggling 
green suburb, containing numberless little shabb}', patched, 
broken- windowed huts, with rickety gardens dotted with rags 
that have been washed, and children that have not ; and thronged 
with all sorts of rao-oed inhabitants. Near to the suburb in the 
town, is a dingy old mysterious district, called Stoneybatter, 
where some houses have been allowed to reach an old age, ex- 
traordinary in this country of premature ruin, and look as if 
they had been built some sixscore years since. In these and 
the neighboring tenements, not so old, but equaUy ruinous and 
mouldy, there is a sort of vermin swarm of humanity ; dirty 
faces at all the dirt\' windows ; children on all the broken steps ; 
smutt}^ slipshod women clacking and bustUng about, and old 
men dawdling. Well, onl}^ paint and prop the tumbling gates 
and huts in the suburb, and fancy the Stoneybatterites clean, 
and you would have rather a gay and agreeable picture of 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 309 

human life — of work-people and their families reposing after 
their labors. They are all happy, and sober, and kind-hearted, 
— tiie}' seem kind, and pla}' with the children — the 3'oung 
women having a ga}' good-natured joke for the passer-b}' ; the 
old seemingly contented, and buzzing to one another. It is 
onl}' the costume, as it were, that has frightened the stranger, 
and made him fancy that people so ragged must be unhappy. 
Observation grows used to the rags as much as the people do, 
and m}^ impression, of the walk through this district, on a sun- 
shiny, clear, autumn evening, is that of a fete, I am almost 
ashamed it should be so^ 

Near to Stoneybatter lies a group of huge gloomy edifices — 
an hospital, a penitentiar}', a mad-house, and a poor-house. I 
visited the latter of these, the North Dublin Union-house, an 
enormous establishment, which accommodates two thousand 
beggars. Like all the public institutions of the country, it 
seems to be well conducted, and is a vast, orderl}', and cleanly 
place, wherein the prisoners are better clothed, better fed, and 
better housed than they can hope to be when at libert3^ We 
were taken into all the wards in due order : the schools and 
nurser}^ for the children ; the dining-rooms, daj'-rooms, &c., of 
the men and women. Each division is so accommodated, as 
also with a large court or ground to walk and exercise in. 

Among the men, there are very few able-bodied : the most 
of them, the keeper said, having gone out for the harvest-time, 
or as soon as the potatoes came in. If the}' go out, the}' can- 
not return before the expiration of a month : the guardians 
have been obliged to establish this prohibition, lest the persons 
requiring relief should go in and out too frequently. The old 
men were assembled in considerable numbers in a long da}'- 
room that is comfortable and warm. Some of them were pick- 
ing oakum by way of employment, but most of them were past 
work ; all such inmates of the house as are able-bodied being 
occupied upon the premises. Their hall was airy and as clean 
as brush and water could make it: the men equally clean, and 
their gray jackets and Scotch caps stout and warm. Thence 
we were led, with a sort of satisfaction, by the guardian, to 
the kitchen — a large room, at the end of which might be seen 
certain coppers, emitting, it must be owned, a very faint in- 
hospitable smell. It was Friday, and rice-milk is the food on 
that day, each man being served with a pint-canful, of which 
cans a great number stood smoking upon stretchers — the 
platters were laid, each with its portion of salt, in the large 
clean dining-room hard by. " Look at that rice," said the 



310 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

keeper, taking up a bit; " try it, sir, it's delicious." I'm sure 
I hope it is. 

The okl women's room was crowded with, I should tftink, 
at least four hundred old ladies — neat and nice, in white 
clothes and caps — sitting demurely on benches, doing nothing 
for the most part; but some emplo3'ed, like the old men, in 
fiddling with the oakum. " There's tobacco here," says the 
guardian in a loud voice ; " who's smoking tobacco?" " Faith, 
and I wish dere was some tabaccy here," sa3^s one old lad}^, 
"and my service to 3'ou, Mr. Leary, and I hope one of the 
gentlemen has a snuff-box, and a pinch for a poor old woman." 
But we had no boxes ; and if an^^ person who reads this visit, 
goes to a poor-house or a lunatic asylum, let him carry a box, 
if for that day only — a pinch is like Dives's drop of water to 
those poor limboed souls. Some of the poor old creatures be- 
gan to stand up as we came in — I can't say how painful such 
an honor seemed to me. 

There was a separate room for the able-bodied females ; and 
the place and courts were full of stout, red-cheeked, bouncing 
women. If the old ladies looked respectable, I cannot say the 
young ones were particularly good-looking ; there were some 
Ho^arthian faces amongst them — sl}% leering, and hideous. I 
fancied I could see only too well what these girls had been. Is 
it charitable or not to hope that such bad faces could onty be- 
long to bad women ? 

"Here, sir, is the nursery," said the guide, flinging open 
the door of a long room. There may have been eighty 
babies in it, with as man}' nurses and mothers. Close to the 
door sat one with as beautiful a face as I almost ever saw : she 
had at her breast a ver}' sickh^ and punj- child, and looked up, 
as we entered, with a pair of angelical eyes, and a face that 
Mr. Eastlake could paint — a face that had been angelical that 
is ; for there was the snow still, as it were, but with the foot- 
mark on it. I asked her how old she was — she did not know. 
She could not have been more than fifteen years, the poor child. 
She said she had been a servant — and there was no need of 
asking anything more about her story. I saw her grinning at 
one of her comrades as we went out of the room ; her face did 
not look angelical then. Ah, young master or old, young or 
old villain, who did this ! — have you not enough wickedness 
of your own to answer for, that you must take another's sins 
upon 3'our shoulders ; and be this wretched child's sponsor in 
crime? .... 

But this chapter must be made as short as possible : and so 



THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 311 

I will not say how much prouder Mr. Leary, the keeper, was 
of his fat pigs than of his paupers — how hepointed us out the 
burial-ground of the family of the poor — their coffins were 
quite visible through the niggardly mould; and the children 
might peep at their fathers over the burial-ground-play-ground- 
wall — nor how we went to see the Linen Hall of Dublin — 
that huge, useless, lonely, deca3-ed place, in the vast windy 
solitudes of which stands the simpering s-tatue of George IV. , 
pointing to some bales of shirting, over which he is supposed 
to extend his august protection. 

The cheers of the rabble hailing the new Lord Mayor were 
the last sounds that I heard in Dublin : and I quitted the kind 
friends I had made there with the sincerest regret. As for 
forming ' ' an opinion of Ireland," such as is occasionally asked 
from a traveller on his return — that is as difficult an opinion 
to form as to express ; and the puzzle which has perplexed the 
gravest and wisest, may be confessed by a humble writer of 
light literature, whose aim it only was to look at the manners 
and the scenery of the country, and who does not venture to 
meddle with questions of more serious import. 

To have " an opinion about Ireland," one must begin by 
getting at the truth ; and where is it to be had in the country ? 
Or rather, there are two truths, the Catholic truth and the 
Protestant truth. The two parties do not see things with the 
same e^'es. I recollect, for instance, a Catholic gentleman 
telling me that the Primate had fort3'-three thousand five hun- 
dred a year; a Protestant clergyman gave me, chapter and 
verse, the history of a shameful perjury and malversation of 
money on the part of a Cathohc priest : nor was one tale more 
true than the other. But belief is made a party business ; and 
tlie receiving of the archbishop's income would probably not 
convince the Catholic, any more than the clearest evidence to 
the contrary altered the Protestant's opinion. Ask about an 
estate : you may be sure almost that people will make mis- 
statements, or volunteer them if not asked. Ask a cottager 
about his rent, or his landlord : you cannot trust him. I shall 
never forget the glee with which a gentleman in Munster told me 
how he had sent off MM. Tocqueville and Beaumont " with such 
a set of stories." Inglis was seized, as I am told, and mystified 
in the same way. In the midst of all these truths, attested with 
" I give ye my sacred honor and word," which is the stranger 
to select? And how are we to trust philosophers who make 
theories upon such data? 

Meanwhile it is satisfactory to know, upon testimon}^ so 



312 THE IRISH SKETCH BOOK. 

general as to be equivalent almost to fact, that, wretched as it 
is, the country is steadily advancing, nor nearly so wretched 
now as it was a score of years since ; and let us hope that the 
middle class, which this increase of prosperity must generate 
(and of which our laws have hitherto forbidden the existence 
in Ireland, making there a population of Protestant aristocracy 
and Catholic peasantry), will exercise the greatest and most 
beneficial influence over the country. Too independent to be 
bullied by priest or squire — having their interest in quiet, and 
alike indisposed to serviUty or to rebellion ; may not as much 
be hoped from the gradual formation of such a class, as from 
any legislative meddling. It is the want of the middle class 
that has rendered the squire so arrogant, and the clerical or 
political demagogue so powerful ; and I think Mr. O'Connell 
himself would say that the existence of such a body would do 
more for the steady acquirement of orderly freedom, than the 
occasional outbreak of any crowd, influenced by any eloquence 
from altar or tribune. 



CHARACTEE SKETCHES. 



I 



CAPTAIN ROOK AND MR. PIGEON. 



The statistic-mongers and dealers in geographj^ have calcu- 
lated to a nicety how man3^ quartern loaves, bars of iron, pigs 
of lead, sacks of wool, Turks, Quakers, Methodists, Jews, 
Catholics, and Church-of-England men are consumed or pro- 
duced in the different countries of this wicked world : I should 
like to see an accurate table showing the rogues and dupes of 
each nation ; the calculation would form a pretty matter for a 
philosopher to speculate upon. The mind loves to repose and 
broods benevolently over this expanded theme. What thieves 
are there in Paris, O heavens ! and what a power of rogues 
with pigtails and mandarin buttons at Pekin ! Crowds of 
swindlers are there at this verN' moment pursuing their trade at 
St. Petersburg : how many scoundrels are sa3ing their prayers 
alongside of Don Carlos ! how many scores are jobbing under 
the prettj^ nose of Queen Christina ! what an inordinate number 
of rascals is there, to be sure, puffing tobacco and drinking flat 
small-beer in all the capitals of German}' ; or else, without a 
rag to their ebony backs, swigging quass out of calabashes, 
and smeared over with palm-oil, lolling at the doors of clay 
huts in the sunn}- city of Timbuctoo ! It is not necessary to 
make anj^ more topographical allusions, or, for illustrating the 
above position, to go through the whole Gazetteer; but he is a 
bad philosopher who has not all these things in mind, and does 
not in his speculations or his estimate of mankind dul}' con- 
sider and weigh them. And it is fine and consolatory to think 
that thoughtful Nature, which has provided sweet flowers for 
the humming bee ; fair running streams for glittering fish ; 
store of kids, deer, goats, and other fresh meat for roaring 
lions ; for active cats, mice ; for mice, cheese, and so on ; 



316 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

establishing throughout the whole of her realm the great cloc- 
trme that where a demand is, there will be a suppty (see the 
romances of Adam Smith, Malthus, and Ricardo, and the 
philosophical works of Miss Martineau) : I say it is consolatory 
to think that, as Nature has provided flies for the food of fishes, 
and flowers for bees, so she has created fools for rogues ; and 
thus the scheme is consistent throughout. Yes, observation, 
with extensive view, will discover Captain Rooks all over the 
world, and Mr. Pigeons made for their benefit. Wherever 
shines the sun, you are sure to find Folly basking in it ; and 
knavery is the shadow at Folly's heels. 

It is not, however, necessary to go to St. Petersburg or 
Pekin for rogues (and in truth I/lon't know whether the Tim- 
buctoo Captain Rooks prefer cribbage or bilUards). " We are 
not birds," as the Irishman says, "to be in half a dozen places 
at once ; " so let us pretermit all considerations of rogues in 
other countries, examining only those who flourish under our 
very noses. I have travelled much, and seen many men and 
cities ; and, in truth, I think that our country of England pro- 
duces the best soldiers, sailors, razors, tailors, brewers, hatters, 
and rogues, of all. Especially there is no cheat like an English 
cheat. Our society produces them in the greatest numbers as 
well as of the greatest excellence. We supply all Europe with 
them. I defy you to point out a great citj' of the Continent 
where half a dozen of them are not to be found : proofs of our 
enterprise and samples of our home manufacture. Try Rome, 
Cheltenham, Baden, Toeplitz, Madrid, or Tzarskoselo : I have 
been in every one of them, and give 3'ou my honor that the 
Englishman is the best rascal to be found in all ; better than 
your eager Frenchman ; your swaggering Irishman, with a red 
velvet waistcoat and red whiskers ; your grave Spaniard, with 
horrid goggle eyes and profuse diamond shirt-pins ; your tallow- 
faced German baron, with white moustache and double chin, 
fat, pudgy, dirty fingers, and great gold thumb-ring ; better 
even than your nondescript Russian — swindler and spy as he 
is by loyalty and education — the most dangerous antagonist 
we have. Who has the best coat even at Vienna? who has 
the neatest britzska at Baden ? who drinks the best champagne 
at Paris? Captain Rook, to be sure, of her Britannic Majesty's 
service ; — he has been of the service, that is to say, but often 
finds it convenient to sell out. 

The life of a blackleg, which is the name contemptuously 
applied to Captain Rook in his own country, is such an eas^', 
comfortable, careless, merry one, that I can't conceive why all 



CAPTAIN ROOK AND MR. PIGEON. ol7 

the world do not turn Captain Rooks ; unless, may be, there 
are some m3'steries and difficulties in it which the vulgar know 
nothing of, and which onlj^ men of real genius can overcome. 
Call on Captain Rook in the da}' (in London, he lives about 
St. James's ; abroad, he has the very best rooms in the very 
best hotels), and you will find him at one o'clock dressed in 
the very finest rohe-de-chamhre^ before a breakfast- table covered 
with the prettiest patties and delicacies possible ; smoking, 
perhaps, one of the biggest Meerschaum pipes you ever saw ; 
reading, possiblj', The Morning Post, or a novel (he has onh' 
one volume in his whole room, and that from a circulating 
library) ; or having his hair dressed ; or talking to a tailor 
about waistcoat patterns ; or drinking soda-water with a glass 
of sherry ; all this he does ever}' morning, and it does not seem 
very difficult, and lasts until three. At three, he goes to a 
horse-dealer's, and lounges there for half an hour ; at four he is 
to be seen at the window of his Club ; at five, he is cantering 
and curveting in Hyde Park with one or two more (he does 
not know any ladies, but has many male acquaintances : some, 
stout old gentlemen riding cobs, who knew his family, and give 
him a surly grunt of recognition ; some, very young lads with 
pale dissolute faces, little moustaches perhaps, or at least little 
tufts on their chin, who hail him eagerly as a man of fashion) : 
at seven, he has a dinner at " Long's " or at the " Clarendon ; " 
and so to bed very likely at five in the morning, after a quiet 
game of whist, broiled bones, and punch. 

Perhaps he dines early at a tavern in Covent Garden ; after 
which, you will see him at the theatre in a private box (Captain 
Rook aflfects the Olympic a good deal). In the box, beside 
himself, you will remark a young man — very young — one of 
the lads who spoke to him in the Park this morning, and a 
couple of ladies : one shabby, melancholy, raw-boned, with 
numberless small white ringlets, large bands and feet, and a 
faded light blue silk gown ; she has a large cap, trimmed with 
3'ellow, and all sorts of crumpled flowers and greasy blond 
lace ; she wears large gilt ear-rings, and sits back, and nobody 
speaks to her, and she to nobody, except to say, " Law, Maria, 
how well you do look to-night ; there's a man opposite has been 
staring at }ou this three hours ; I'm blest if it isn't him as we 
saw in the Park, dear ! " 

" I wish, Hanna, you'd 'old 3''our tongue, and not bother me 
about the men. You don't believe Miss 'Ickman, Freddy, do 
you?" says Maria, smiling fondly on Freddy. Maria is sitting 
in front : she sa.vs she is twenty-three, though Miss Hickman 



318 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

knows veiy well she is thirty -one (Fredd}- is just of age). She 
wears a purple-velvet gown, three different gold bracelets on 
each arm, as many rings on each finger of each hand ; to one 
is hooked a gold smelling-bottle : she has an enormous fan, a 
laced pocket-handkerchief, a cashmere shawl, which is con- 
tinually faUing off, and exposing, very unnecessarily, a pair of 
ver}^ white shoulders : she talks loud, always lets her playbill 
drop into the pit, and smells most pungently of Mr. Delcroix's 
shop. After this description it is not at all necessary to say 
who Maria is : Miss Hickman is her companion, and they live 
together in a very snug little house in Mayfair, which has just 
been new-furnished a la Louis Quatorze b}- Fredd}', as we are 
positively' informed. It is even said that the little carriage, 
with two Kttle white ponies, which Maria drives herself in such 
a fascinating wa}' through the Park, was purchased for her by 
Fredd}' too ; av, and that Captain Rook got it for him — a great 
bargain of course. 

Such is Captain Rook's life. Can an^'thing be more eas}' ? 
Suppose Maria says, "Come home. Rook, and heat a cold 
chicken with us, and a glass of hiced champagne ; " and sup- 
pose he goes, and after chicken — just for fun — Maria proposes 
a little chicken-hazard; — she onl3^ plays for shillings, while 
Fredd}-, a little bolder, won't mind half-pound stakes himself. 
Is there any great harm in all this? Well, after half an hour, 
Maria grows tired, and Miss Hickman nas oeen nodding asleep 
in the corner long ago ; so off the two ladies set, candle in 
hand. 

" D — n it, Fred," says Captain Rook, pouring out for that 
3-oung gentleman his fifteenth glass of champagne, " what luck 
you are in, W you did but know how to back it ! " 

What more natural, and even kind, of Rook than to say 
this? Fred is evidentlj- an inexperienced player; and every 
experienced plajer knows that there is nothing like backing 
3'our luck. Freddy does. Well ; fortune is proverbiall}^ varia- 
ble ; and it is not at all surprising that Freddy, after having 
had so much luck at the commencement of the evening, should 
have the tables turned on him at some time or other. — Freddy 
loses. 

It is deuced unlucky, to be sure, that he should have won 
all the little coups and lost all the great ones ; but there is a 
plan which the commonest play-man knows, an infallible means 
of retrieving yourself at play : it is simpl}^ doubling your stake. 
Say, you lose a guinea : you bet two guineas, which if 3'ou win, 
you win a guinea and your original stake : if you lose, you have 



CAPTAIN ROOK AND MR. PIGEON. 319 

but to bet four guineas on the third stake, eight on the fourth, 
sixteen on the fifth, thirty-two on the sixth, and so on. It 
stands to reason that you cannot lose always, and the very first 
time you win, all your losings are made up to you. There is 
but one drawback to this infallible process ; if you begin at a 
guinea, double every time you lose, and lose fifteen times, j'ou 
will have lost exactly sixteen thousand three hundred and 
eighty-four guineas ; a sum which probably exceeds the amount 
of your yearly income : — mine is considerably under that 
figure. 

Freddy does not play this game then, yet ; but being a poor- 
spirited creature, as we have seen he must be by being afraid 
to win, he is equally poor-spirited when he begins to lose : he 
is frightened ; that is, increases his stakes, and backs his ill- 
luck : when a man does this, it is all over with him. 

When Captain Rook goes home (the sun is peering through 
the shutters of the little drawing-room in Curzon Street, and the 
ghastly footboy — oh, how bleared his eyes look as he opens 
the door!)— when Captain Rook goes home, he has Freddy's 
I O U's in his pocket to the amount, say, of three hundred 
pounds. Some people say that Maria has half of the money 
when it is paid ; but this I don't believe : is Captain Rook the 
kind of fellow to give up a purse when his hand has once 
clawed hold of it ? 

Be this, however, true or not, it concerns us very little. The 
Captain goes home to King Street, plunges into bed much too 
tired to say his prayers, and wakes the next morning at twelve 
to go over such anotlier day as we have just chalked out for 
him. As for Fredd}-, not poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the 
soda-water at the chemist's, can ever medicine him to that sweet 
sleep which he might have had but for his loss. " i/'I had but 
played my king of hearts," sighed Fred, " and kept back my 
trump ; but there's no standing against a fellow who turns up a 
king seven times running : if I had even but pulled up w^hen 
Thomas (curse him !) brought up that infernal CuraQOa punch, 
I should have saved a couple of hundred," and so on go Freddy's 
lamentations. O luckless Freddy ! dismal Freddy ! silly gaby 
of a Freddy ! you are hit now, and there is no cure for you but 
bleeding you almost to death's door. The homoeopathic maxim 
of similia similibus — which means, I believe, that you are to 
be cured " by a hair of the dog that bit you " — must be put in 
practice with regard to Freddy — only not in homoeopathic in- 
finitesimal doses ; no hair of the dog that bit him ; but, vice 
versa, tlie do^ of the hair that tickled him. Freddy has begun 



320 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

to pla}^ ; — a mere trifle at first, but he must play it out ; he 
must go the whole dog now, or tliere is no chance for him. He 
must play until he can play no more ; he will play until he has 
not a shilling left to play with, when, perhaps, he may turn out 
an honest man, though the odds are against him : the betting 
is in favor of his being a swindler always ; a rich or a poor one, 
as the case may be. I need not tell Freddy's name, 1 think, 
now ; it stands on this card : — 



MR. FREDERICK PIGEON, 
long's hotel. 



I haA^e said the chances are that Frederick Pigeon, Esq. , will 
become a rich or a poor swindler, though the first chance, it 
must be confessed, is very remote. I once heard an actor, who 
could not write, speak, or even read EngUsh ; who was not, fit 
for any trade in the world, and had not the " nous " to keep an 
applestall, and scared}' even enough sense to make a Member 
of Parliament : I once, I sa}', heard an actor, — whose only 
qualifications were a large pair of legs, a large voice, and a very- 
large neck, — curse his fate and his profession, b}- which, 
do what he would, he could onl}' make eight guineas a week. 
" No men," said he, with a great deal of justice, " were so ill 
paid as ' dramatic artists ; ' thc}^ labored for nothing all their 
3'ouths, and had no provision for old age." With this, he 
sighed, and called for (it was on a Saturday night) the fortj^- 
ninth glass of brand3'-and-water which he had drunk in the 
course of the week. 

The excitement of his profession, I make no doubt, caused 
my friend Claptrap to consume this quantit}^ of spirit-and-water, 
besides beer in the morning, after rehearsal ; and I could not 
help musing over his fate. It is a hard one. To eat, drink, 
work a little, and be J0II3' ; to be paid twice as much as 3'ou are 
worth, and then to go to ruin ; to drop off the tree when 3-0U 
are swelled out, seedy, and over-ripe ; and to lie rotting in the 
mud underneath, until at last 3-ou mingle with it. 

Now, badl3' as the actor is paid, (and the reader will the 
more readil3^ pardon the above episode, because, in realit}^, 
it has nothing to do with the subject in hand,) and luckless as 
his fate is, the lot of the poor blackleg is cast lower still. You 
never hear of a rich gambler ; or of one who wins in the end. 
Where does all the mone3^ go to which is lost among them? 



CAPTAm ROOK AND MR. PIGEON. 321 

Did 3^ou ever pla}- a game at loo for sixpences ? At the end of 
the night a great many of those small coins have been lost, and 
in consequence, won : but ask the table all round ; one man has 
won three shillings ; two have neither lost nor won ; one rather 
thinks he has lost ; and the three others have lost two pounds 
each. Is not this the fact, known to ever3'bod3' who indulges 
in round games, and especiall3' the noble game of loo? I often 
think that the devil's books, as cards are called, are let out to 
us from Old Nick's circulating librar}', and that he la3-s his paw 
upon a certain part of the winnings, and carries it off privily : 
else, what becomes of all the mone_y? 

For instance, there is the gentleman whom the newspapers 
call ' ' a noble earl of sporting celebrit}' ; " — if he has lost a 
shilling, according to the newspaper accounts, he has lost fift}- 
millions : he drops fifty thousand pounds at the Derby, just as 
3'ou and I would lav down twopence-halfpenn3' for half an ounce 
of Macabaw. Who has won these millions ? Is it Mr. Crock- 
ford, or Mr. Bond, or Mr. Salon-des-Etrangers? (I do not call 
these latter gentlemen gamblers, for their speculation is a cer- 
tainty) ; but who wins his mone3', and everybody else's mone3' 
who plays and loses ? Much mone3' is staked ni the absence of 
Mr. Crockford ; many notes are given without the . interference 
of the Bonds ; there are hundreds of thousands of gamblers 
who are etr angers even to the Salon-des-Etrangers. 

No, m3' dear sir, it is not in the public gambling-houses that 
the money is lost ; it is not in them that your virtue is chiefly 
in danger. Better b3^ half lose your income, your fortune, or 
3'our master's mone3^, in a decent public hell, than in the private 
societ3' of such men as m3' friend Captain Rook ; but we are 
again and again digressing ; the point is, is the Captain's trade 
a good one, and does it yield tolerably good interest for outlay 
and capital? 

To the latter question first : — at this very season of May, 
when the Rooks are very young, have you not, my dear friend, 
often tasted them in pies ? — they are then so tender that you 
cannot tell the diflference between them and pigeons. So, in 
like manner, our Rook has been in his youth undistinguishable 
from a pigeon. He does as he has been done b3' : 3'ea, he has been 
plucked as even now he plucks his friend Mr. Frederick Pigeon. 
Say that he began the world with ten thousand pounds : ever3^ 
maravedi of this is gone ; and may be considered as the capi- 
tal which he has sacrificed to learn his trade. Having spent 
10,000/., then, on an annuit3- of G50/., he must look to a larger 
interest for his money — say fifteen hundred, two thousand, or 

21 



322 CHAKACTER SKETCHJES. 

three thousand pounds, decentty to repa}^ his risk and labor. 
Besides the money sunk in the first place, his profession requires 
continual annual outla3's, as thus — 

Horses, carriages (including Epsom, Goodwood, Ascot, &c.) . . £500 

Lodgings, servants, and board 350 

Watering-places, and touring 300 

Dinners to give 150 

I'oeket-nioney 150 

Gloves, handkerchiefs, perfumery, and tobacco (very moderate) . 150 

Tailor's bills (£100 say, never paid) 000 

Total £1,600 

I def}^ an}^ man to carry on the profession in a decent way 
under the above sum : ten thousand sunk, and sixteen hundred 
annual expenses ; no, it is not a good profession : it is not good 
interest for one's money : it is not a fair remuneration for a 
gentleman of birth, industr}^ and genius : and ni}' friend Clap- 
trap, who growls about his pay, ma}^ bless his e^^es that he was 
not born a gentleman and bred up to such an unprofitable calling 
as this. Considering his trouble, his outlay, his birth, and 
breeding, the Captain is most wickedl}' and baselj^ rewarded. 
And when he is obliged to retreat, when his hand trembles, his 
credit is fallen, his bills laughed at by everj^ money-lender in 
Europe, his tailors rampant and inexorable — in fact, when the 
coup of life will sauter for him no more — who will help the play- 
worn veteran ? As Mitchel sings after Aristophanes — 

" In glory he was seen, when his years as yet were green; 
But now when his dotage is on him, 
God help him ; — for no eye of those who pass him by. 
Throws a look of compassion upon him." 

Who indeed will help him ? — not his family, for he has bled his 
father, his uncle, his old grandmother ; he has had shces out of 
his sisters' portions, and quarrelled with his brothers-in-law ; the 
old people are dead ; the young ones hate him, and will give 
him nothing. Who will help him ? — not his friends ; in the 
first place, my dear sir, a man's friends very seldom do : in the 
second place, it is Captain Rook's business not to keep, but to 
give up his friends. His acquaintances do not last more than 
a year ; the time, namely, during which he is emplo3'ed in 
plucking them ; then they part. Pigeon has not a single feather 
left to his tail, and how should he help Rook, whom, au reste, 
he has learned to detest most cordially, and has found out to 
be a rascal ? When Rook's ill day comes, it is simply because 



CAPTAIN ROOK AND MR. PIGEON. 323 

he has no more friends ; he has exhausted them all, plucked 
every one as clean as the palm of your hand. And to arrive 
at this conclusion, Rook has been spending sixteen hundred a 
year, and the prime of his hfe, and has moreover sunk ten 
thousand pounds ! Is this a proper reward for a gentleman ? 
I sa}^ it is a sin and a shame that an English gentleman should 
be allowed thus to drop down the stream without a single hand 
to help him. 

The moral of the above remarks I take to be this ; that 
blacklegging is as bad a trade as can be ; and so let parents 
and guardians look to it, and not apprentice their children to 
such a villanous, scurvy way of living. 

It must be confessed, however, that there are some indi- 
viduals who have for the profession such a natural genius, that 
no entreaties or example of parents will keep them from it, 
and no restraint or occupation occasioned b}' another calling. 
They do what Christians do not do ; they leave all to follow 
their master the Devil ; they cut friends, families, and good, 
thriving, profitable trades to put up with this one, that is both 
unthrifty and unprofitable. The}^ are in regiments : ugly whis- 
pers about certain midnight games at blind-hookey, and a few 
odd bargains in horseflesh, are borne abroad, and Cornet Rook 
receives the gentlest hint in the world that he had better sell 
out. They are in counting-houses, with a promise of partner- 
ship, for which papa is to lay down a handsome premium ; but 
the firm of Hobbs, Bobbs and Higgory can never admit a young 
gentleman who is a notorious gambler, is much oftener at the 
races than his desk, and has bills daily falling due at his pri- 
vate banker's. The father, that excellent old man, Sam Rook, 
so well known on 'Change in the war-time, discovers, at the 
end of five years, that his son has spent rather more than the 
four thousand pounds intended fgi' his partnership, and cannot, 
in common justice to his other thirteen children, give him a 
shiUing more. A pretty pass for flash young Tom Rook, with 
four horses in stable, a protemporaneous Mrs. Rook, very 
likely, iu an establishment near the Regent's Park, and a bill 
for three hundred and seventy-five pounds coming due on the 
fifth of next month. 

Sometimes young Rook is destined to the bar : and I am 
glad to introduce one of these gentlemen and his history to the 
notice of the reader. He was the son of an amiable gentleman, 
the Reverend Athanasius Rook, who took high honors at Cam- 
Dridge in the year 1 : was a fellow of Trinit}- in the 3'ear 2 : and 
60 continued a fellow and tutor of the College until a livinsr fell 



324 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

vacant, on which he seized. It was onlj- two hundred and fifty 
pounds a year ; but the fact is, Athanasius was in love. Miss 
Gregory, a prett}^, demure, simple governess at Miss Mickle's 
establishment for young ladies in Cambridge (where the rever- 
end gentleman used often of late to take his tea), had caught 
the eye of the honest college tutor : and in Trinity walks, and 
up and down the Trumpington Road, he walked with her (and 
another young lady of course), talked with her, and told his 
love. 

Miss Gregory had not a rap, as might be imagined ; but she 
loved Athanasius with her whole soul and strength, and was 
the most orderl}^, cheerful, tender, smiling, bustling little wife 
that ever a country parson was blessed withal. Athanasius took 
a couple of pupils at a couple of hundred guineas each, and so 
made out a snug income ; a}^, and laid b}' for a rainj^ da}' — a 
little portion for Harriet, when she should grow up and marry, 
and a help for Tom at college and at the bar. For 3'ou must 
know there were two Uttle Rooks now growing in the rookery ; 
and very happ}^ v/ere father and mother, I can tell 3'ou, to put 
meat down their tender little throats. Oh, if ever a man was 
good and happ}', it was Athanasius ; if ever a woman was happ}' 
and good, it was his wife : not the whole parish, not the whole 
count}', not the whole kingdom, could produce such a snug 
rector3\ or such a pleasant menage. 

Athanasius's fame as a scholar, too, was great ; and as his 
charges were very high, and as he received but two pupils, 
there was, of course, much anxiet}' among wealthy parents to 
place their children under his care. Future squires, bankers, 
yea, lords and dukes, came to profit by his instructions, and 
were led by him graceful^ over the ' ' Asses' bridge " into the 
sublime regions of mathematics, or through the syntax into 
the pleasant paths of classic l^'c. 

In the midst of these companions, Tom Rook grew up ; more 
fondled and petted, of course, than the}' ; cleverer than they ; 
as handsome, dashing, well-instructed a lad for his years as 
ever went to college to be a senior wrangler, and went down 
without any such honor. 

Fancy, then, our young gentleman installed at college, 
whither his father has taken him, and with fond veteran recol- 
lections has surveyed hall and grass-plots, and the old porter, 
and the old fountain, and the old rooms in which he used to 
live. Fancy the sobs of good little Mrs. Rook, as she parted 
with lier boy ; and the tears of sweet pale Harriet, as she clung 
round his neck, and brought him (in a silver paper, slobbered 



CAPTAIN ROOK AND MR. PIGEON. 325 

with many tears) a little crimson silk purse (wi.h two guineas 
of her own in it, poor thing!). Fanc}^ all this, and fancy 
young Tom, sorry too, but yet restless and glad, panting for 
the new life opening upon him ; the freedom, the joy of the 
manly struggle for fame, which he vows he will win. Tom 
Rook, in otlier words, is installed at Trinity College, attends 
lectures, reads at home, goes to chapel, uses wine-parties 
moderately, and bids fair to be one of the topmost men of his 
year. 

Tom goes down for the Christmas vacation. (What a man 
he is grown, and how his sister and mother quarrel which shall 
walk with him down the village ; and what stories the old gen- 
tleman lugs out with his old port, and how he quotes jEschy- 
lus, to be sure !) The pupils are away too, and the three have 
Tom in quiet. Alas ! I fear the place has grown a little too 
quiet for Tom : however, he reads very stoutly of mornings ; 
and sister Harriet peeps with a great deal of wonder into huge 
books of scribbling-paper, containing many strange diagrams, 
and complicated arrangements of x's and ^'s. 

May comes, and the college examinations : the delighted 
parent receives at breakfast, on the 10th of that month, two 
letters, as follows : — 

FROxM THE REV. SOLOMON SNORTER TO THE REV. 
ATHANASIUS ROOK. 

" Trinity, May 10. 
"Dear Credo* — I wish you joy. Your lad is the best man of his 
year, and I hope in four more to see liim at our table. In classics he is, 
my dear friend, facile pn'nceps ; in matliematics he was run hard (enfre nons) 
by a lad of the name of Snick, a Westmoreland man and a sizer. We 
must keep up Thomas to his mathematics, and I have no doubt we shall 
make a fellow and a wrangler of him. 

" I send you his college bill, 105/. lOs. ; rather heavy, but this is the first 
ijrni, and that you know is expensive : I shall be glad to give you a receipt 
tor it. By the way, the young man is rather too "fond of amiisement, and 
lives with a very expensive set. Give him a lecture on this score. 

" Yours, 

" Sol. Sxorter." 

Next comes Mr. Tom Rook's own letter : it is long, modest : 
we onl}' give the postscript : — 

"P.S. — Dear father, I forgot to say that, as I live in the very best set 
in the University, (Lord Bagwig, the Duke's eldest son you know, vows lie 
will give me a living,) I have been led into one or two expenses which will 



* This is most probably a joke on the Christian name of Mr. Rook. 



326 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

frighten you : I lost £30 to tlie honorable Mr. Deuceace (a son of Lord 
Crabs) at Bagwig's, the other day at dinner; and owe £54 more for des- 
serts and hiring horses, which I can't send into Snorter's bill* Hiring 
liorses is so deuced expensive ; next term I must have a nag of my own, 
that's positive." 

The Rev. Atlianasins read the postscript with much less gusto 
than the letter : however, Tom has done his dut}^ and the old 
gentleman won't balk his pleasure; so he sends him 100/., 
with a "God bless you!" and mamma adds, in a postscript, 
that " he must always keep well with his aristocratic friends, 
for he was made only for the best societ}-." 

A year or two passes on : Tom comes home for the vaca- 
tions ; but Tom has sadly changed ; he has grown haggard and 
pale. At second year's examination (owing to an unlucky 
illness) Tom was not classed at all ; and Snick, the Westmore- 
land man, has carried everything before him. Tom drinks more 
after dinner than his father likes ; he is always riding about 
and dining in the neighborhood, and coming home, quite odd, 
his mother says — ill-humored, unsteady on his feet, and husky 
in his talk. The Reverend Athanasius begins to grow very, 
verj^ grave : the}^ have high words, even the father and son ; 
and oh ! how Harriet and her mother tremble and listen at the 
study-door when these disputes are going on ! 

The last term of Tom's undergraduateship arrives ; he is in 
ill health, but he will make a mighty effort to retrieve himself 
for his degree ; and early in the cold winter's morning — late, 
late at night — he toils over his books : and the end is that, 
a month before the examination, Thomas Rook, Esquire, has 
a brain fever, and Mrs. Rook, and Miss Rook, and the Rev- 
erend Athanasius Rook, are all lodging at the " Hoop," an 
inn in Cambridge town, and day and night round the couch of 
poor Tom. 

O sin, woe, repentance ! O touching reconciliation and 
burst of tears on the part of son and father, when one morn- 
ing at the parsonage, after Tom's recovery, the old gentleman 
produces a bundle of receipts, and sa3'S, with a broken voice, 
" There, boy, don't be vexed about your debts. Boys will 
be boys, 1 know, and I have paid all demands." Everybody 
cries in the house at this news ; the mother and daughter most 

* It is, or was, the custom for young gentlemen at Cambridge to have 
unlimited credit with tradesmen, whom the college tutors paid, and then 
sent the bills to the parents of the young men. 



CAPTAIN ROOK AND MR. PIGEON. 327 

profusely, even Mrs. Stokes the old housekeeper, who shakes 
master's hand, and actually kisses INIr. Tom. 

Well, Tom begins to read a little for his fellowship, but in 
vain ; he is beaten by Mr. Snick, the Westmoreland man. He 
has no hopes of a living ; Lord Bagwig's promises were all moon- 
shine. Tom must go to the bar ; and his father, who has long 
left off taking pupils, must take them again, to support his son 
in London. 

Why tell you what happens when there? Tom lives at the 
w^est end of' the town, and never goes near the Temple: Tom 
goes to Ascot and Epsom along with his great friends ; Tom has 
a long bill with Mr. Rymell, another long bill with Mr. Nugee ; 
he ge'ts into the hands of the Jews — and his father rushes up 
to London on the outside of the coach to find Tom in a spunging- 
house in Cursitor Street — the nearest approach he has made to 
the Temple during his three years' residence in London. 

I don't like to tell you the rest of the history. The Rev- 
erend Athanasius was not immortal, and he died a year after 
his visit to the spunging-house, leaving his son exactly one 
farthing, and his wife one hundred pounds a year, with re- 
mainder* to his daughter. But, heaven bless you ! The poor 
thino-s would never allow^ Tom to want while they had plenty, 
and^they sold out and sold out the three thousand pounds, 
until, at the end of three years, there did not remain one 
sino-le stiver of them ; and now Miss Harriet is a governess, 
with sixty pounds a year, supporting her mother, who lives 
upon fifty. 

As for Tom, he is a regular lecj now — leading the life already 
described. When I met him last it was at Baden, where he 
was on a professional tour, with a carriage, a courier, a valet, 
a confederate, and a case of pistols. He has been in five 
duels, he has killed a man who spoke lightly about his honor ; 
and at French or English hazard, at billiards, at whist, at loo, 
ecarte, blind hookey, drawing straws, or beggar-my-neiglibor, 
he will cheat you — cheat you for a hundred pounds or tor a 
o'uinea, and murder vou afterwards if you like. 

Abroad, our friend takes military rank, and calls iimsclf 
Captain Rook ; when asked of what service, he says he was 
with Don Carlos or Queen Christina ; and certain it is that he 
was absent for a couple of years nobody knows where ; he may 
have been with General Evans, or he may have been at the 
Sainte Pelagic in Paris, as some people vow he was. 

We must wind up this paper with some remarks concern- 
ino- poor Uttle Pigeon. Vanity has been little Pigeon's faUing 



323 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

through life. He is a linendraper's son, and has been left with 
money : and the silly fashionable works that lie has read, and 
the silly female relatives that he has — (n.b. All young men 
with money have silly, flattering she-relatives) — and the silly 
trips that he has made to watering-places, where he has scraped 
acquaintance with the Honorable Tom Mountcoffeehouse, Lord 
Bally hooly, the celebrated German Prince, Sweller Mobskau, 
and their like (all Captain Rooks in their way), have been the 
ruin of him. 

I have not the slightest pity in the world for little Pigeon. 
Look at him ! See in what absurd finery the little prig is 
dressed. Wine makes his poor little head ache, but he will 
drink because it is manly. In mortal fear he puts himself 
behind a curveting cameleopard of a cab-horse ; or perched on 
the top of a prancing dromedary, is borne through Rotten Row, 
when he would give the world to be on his own sofa, or with 
his own mamma and sisters, over a quiet pool of commerce and 
a cup of tea. How riding does scarify his poor httle legs, and 
shake his poor little sides ! Smoking, how it does turn his 
little stomach inside out; and yet smoke he will: Sweller 
Mobskau smokes ; Mountcoffeehouse don't mind a cigar ; and 
as for Ballyhooly, he will puff you a dozen in a day, and says 
very truly that Pontet won't suppl}?^ him with near such good 
ones as he sells Pigeon. The fact is, that Pontet vowed seven 
years ago not to give his lordship a sixpence more credit ; and 
so the good-natured nobleman always helps himself out of 
Pigeon's box. 

On the shoulders of these aristocratic individuals, Mr. Pigeon 
is carried into certain clubs, or perhaps we should say he walks 
into them by the aid of these "legs." But they keep him 
always to themselves. Captain Rooks must rob in companies ; 
but of course, the greater the profits, the fewer the partners 
must be. Three are positively requisite, however, as every 
reader must know who has played a game at whist : number 
one to be Pigeon's partner, and curse his stars at losing, and 
propose higher play, and "settle" with number two; number 
three to transact business with Pigeon, and drive him down to 
the city to sell out. We have known an instance or two where, 
after a very good night's work, number three has bolted with the 
winnings altogether, but the practice is dangerous ; not only 
disgraceful to the profession, but it cuts up your own chance 
afterwards, as no one will act with you. There is only one 
occasion on which such a manoeuvre is allowable. Many are 
sick of the profession, and desirous to turn honest men : in 



CAPTAIN ROOK AND MR. PICxEON. 329 

this case, when you can get a good coup, five thousand say, 
bolt without scruple. One thing is clear, the other men must 
be mum, and you can live at Vienna comfortably on the interest 
of five thousand pounds. 

Well, then, in the society of these amiable confederates 
little Pigeon goes through that period of time which is neces- 
sary for the purpose of plucking him. To do this, you must 
not, in most cases, tug at the feathers so as to hurt him, else 
he may be frightened, and hop away to somebodj' else : nor, 
generally speaking, will the feathers come out so easil^' at first 
as they will when he is used to it, and then they drop in hand- 
fuls. Nor need you have the least- scruple in so causing the 
little creature to moult artificially : if you don't, somebody else 
will: a Pigeon goes into the world fated, as Chateaubriand 
sa^'s — 

" Pigeon, il va subir le sort de tout pigeon." 

He must be plucked, it is the purpose for which nature has 
formed him : if 3^ou, Captain Rook, do not perform the oper- 
ation on a green table lighted by two wax-candles, and with 
two packs of cards to operate with, some other Rook will : are 
there not railroads, and Spanish bonds, and bituminous com- 
panies, and Cornish tin-mines, and old dowagers with daughters 
to marry? If you leave him, Rook of Birchin Lane will have 
him as sure as fate : if Rook of Birchin Lane don't hit him, 
Rook of the Stock Exchange will blaze aw a}' both barrels at 
him, which if the poor trembling flutterer escape, he will fly 
over and drop into the rookery, where dear old swindling Lady 
Rook and her daughters will find him and nestle him in their 
bosoms, and in that soft place pluck him until he turns out as 
naked as a cannon-ball. 

Be not thou scrupulous, O Captain ! Seize on Pigeon ; pluck 
him gently but boldly ; but, above all, never let him go. If he 
is a stout cautious bird, of course you must be more cautious ; 
if he is excessively silly and scared, perhaps the best waj^ is 
just to take him round the neck at once, and strip the whole 
stock of plumage from his back. 

The feathers of the human pigeon being thus violently 
abstracted from him, no others supply their place : and 3'et 
I do not pity him. He is now onl}' undergoing the destinj' of 
pigeons, and is, I do believe, as happy in his plucked as in his 
feathered state. He cannot purse out his breast, and bury his 
head, and fan his tail, and strut in the sun as if he were a 
turkey-cock. Under all those fine airs and feathers, he was 



330 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

but what he is now, a poor little meek, silly, cowarclh^ bird, 
and his state of pride is not a whit more natural to him than 
his fallen condition. He soon grows used to it. He is too 
great a coward to despair ; much too mean to be frightened 
because he must live b}^ doing meanness. He is sure, if he 
cannot %, to fall somehow or other on his little miserable legs : 
on tliese he hops about, and manages to live somewhere in 
his own mean wa}'. He has but a small stomach, and doesn't 
mind what food he puts into it. He spunges on his relatives ; 
or else just before his utter ruin he marries and has nine children 
(and such a family always lives) ; he turns bully most likely, 
takes to drinking, and beats his wife, who supports him, or 
takes to drinking too ; or he gets a little place, a very little place ; 
3-ou hear he has some tide-waitership, or is clerk to some new 
milk company, or is lurking about a newspaper. He dies, and 
a subscription is raised for the Widow Pigeon, and we look no 
more to find a likeness of him in his children, who are as a 
new race. Blessed are 3'e little ones, for ye are born in povert}', 
and may bear it, or surmount it and die rich. But woe to the 
pigeons of this earth, for they are born rich that they may die 
poor. 

The end of Captain Rook — for we must bring both him and 
the paper to an end — is not more agreeable, but somewhat 
more manly and majestic than the conclusion of Mr. Pigeon. 
If 3'ou walk over to the Queen's Bench Prison, I would la}- a 
wager that a dozen such are to be found there in a moment. 
The3^ have a kind of Lucifer look with them, and stare at you 
with fierce, twinkling, crow-footed eyes ; or grin from under 
huge grizzly moustaches, as they walk up and down in their 
tattered brocades. What a dreadful activity is that of a mad- 
house, or a prison ! — a dreary flagged court-yard, a long dark 
room, and the inmates of it, like the inmates of the menagerie 
cages, ceaselessly walking up and down! Mary Queen of 
Scots says very touch ingly : — 

" Pour mon mal estranger 
Je ne m'arreste en place ; 
Mais, j'en ay beau changer 
Si ma douleur n'efface ! " 

Up and down, up and down — the inward woe seems to spur the 
body onwards ; and I think in both madhouse and prison you will 
find plenty of specimens of our Captain Rook. It is fine to mark 
him under the pressure of this woe, and see how fierce he looks 
when stirred up by the long pole of memory. In these asylums 



CAPTAIN ROOK AND MR. PIGEON. 331 

the Rooks end their Uves ; or, more happj-, they die miserably 
ill a miserable provincial town abroad, and for the benefit of 
coming Rooks the}' conimonlj- die earl}' ; you as seldom hear of 
an old Rook (practising his trade) as of a rich one. It is a short- 
lived trade ; not merr}' , for the gains are most precarious, and 
perpetual doubt and dread are not pleasant accompaniments of 
a profession : — not agreeable either, for though Captain Rook 
does not mind being a scoundrel, no man likes to be considered 
as such, and as such, he knows very well, does the world con- 
sider Captain Rook : not profitable, for the expenses of the 
trade swallow up all the profits of it, and in addition leave the 
bankrupt with certain habits that have become as nature to him, 
and which, to live, he must gratify. I know no more miserable 
wa-etch than our Rook in his autumn days, at dismal Calais or 
Boulogne, or at the Bench yonder, with a whole load of diseases 
and wants, that have come to him in the course of his profes- 
sion ; the diseases and wants of sensualit}', always pampered, 
and now agonizing for lack of its unnatural food ; the mind, 
which must think now, and has onl}' bitter recollections, morti- 
fied ambitions, and unavailing scoundrelisms to con over ! Oh, 
Captain Rook ! what nice " chums " do you take with you into 
prison ; what pleasant companions of exile follow ^-ou over the 
fines 'patriae^ or attend, the only watchers, round your miserable 
death-bed ! 

My son, be not a Pigeon in thy dealings with the world : — 
but it is better to be a, Pigeon than a Rook. 



THE FASHIONABLE AUTHORESS. 



Paying a visit the other day to my friend Timson, who, I 
need not tell the public, is editor of that famous evening paper, 
the ... . (and let it be said that there is no more profitable 
acquaintance than a gentleman in Timson's situation, in whose 
office, at three o'clock dailj^ you are sure to find new books, 
lunch, magazines, and innumerable tickets for concerts and 
pla3's) : going, I say, into Timson's office, I saw on the table an 
immense paper cone or funnel, containing a bouquet of such a 
size, that it might be called a bosquet, wherein all sorts of rare 
geraniums, luscious magnolias, statel}' dahlias, and other floral 
produce were gathered together — a regular flower-stack. 

Timson was for a brief space invisible, and I was left alone 
in the room with the odors of this tremendous bow-pot, which 
filled the whole of the inky, smuttj^ ding}^ apartment with an 
agreeable incense. " rus! quando te aspiciamV exclaimed 
I, out of the Latin grammar, for imagination had carried me 
awa}' to the countrj^, and I was about to make another excel- 
lent and useful quotation (from the 14th book of the Ihad, 
Mndam), concerning " rudd}'' lotuses, and crocuses, and hj^a- 
cinths," when all of a sudden Timson appeared. His head 
and shoulders had, in fact, been engulfed in the flowers, among 
which he might be compared to an3^ Cupid, butterfly, or bee. 
His little face was screwed up into such an expression of 
comical delight and triumph, that a Methodist parson would 
have laughed at it in the midst of a funeral sermon. 

" What are 3'ou giggUng at? " said Mr. Timson, assuming a 
high, aristocratic air. 

" Has the goddess Flora made 3'ou a present of that bower, 
wrapped up in white paper ; or did it come b^- the vulgar hands 



THE FASHIONABLE AUTHORESS. 333 

of yonder gorgeous footman, at whom all the little printer's 
devils are staring in the passage ? " 

" Stuff! " said Timson, picking to pieces some rare exotic, 
worth at the very least fifteenpence ; "a friend, who knows 
that Mrs. Timson and I are fond of these things, has sent us 
a nosegay, that's all." 

I saw how it was. "Augustus Timson," exclaimed I, 
sternly, "the PimHcoes have been with you; if that footman 
did not wear the Pimlico plush, ring the bell and order me out : 
if that three-cornered billet lying in your snuff-box has not the 
Pimhco seal to it, never ask me to dinner again." 

" Well, if it c?oes," says Mr. Timson, who flushed as red as 
a peony, "what is the harm? Lady Fanny Flummery may 
send flowers to her friends, I suppose ? The conservatories at 
Pimhco House are famous all the world over, and the Countess 
promised me a nosegay the very last time I dined there." 

' ' Was that the da}' when she gave 3'ou a box of bonbons for 
your darling little Ferdinand ? " 

" No, another day." 

" Or the day when she promised vou her carriage for Epsom 
Races?" 

"No." 

" Or the day when she hoped that her Lucy and your Bar- 
bara-Jane might be acquainted, and sent to the latter from the 
former a new French doll and tea-things ? " 

" Fiddlestick ! " roared out Augustus Timson, Esquire : " I 
wish you wouldn't come bothering here. 1 tell you that Lady 
Pimlico is my friend — my friend, mark you, and I will allow 
no man to abuse her in my presence ; I say again no man ; " 
wherewith Mr. Timson plunged both his hands violently into his 
breeches-pockets, looked me in the face sternly, and began 
jingling his keys and shillings about. 

At this juncture (it being about half-past three o'clock in the 
afternoon), a one-horse chaise drove up to the ... . office (Tim- 
son lives at Clapham, and comes in and out in this machine) — 
a one-horse chaise drove up ; and amidst a scuffling and crying 
of small voices, good-humored Mrs. Timson bounced into the 
room. 

"Here we are, deary," said she, "we'll walk to the Mery- 
weathers ; and I've told Sam to be in Charles Street at twelve 
with the chaise : it wouldn't do, you know, to come out of the 
Pimlico box and have the people cry, ' Mrs. Timson's carriage ! ' 
for old Sam and the chaise." 

Timson, to this loving aad voluble address of his lady, gave 



334 CHAKACTEIl SKETCHES. 

a peevish, puzzled look towards the stranger, as much as to 
sa}^ " He's here." 

" La, Mr. Smith ! and how do ,you do? — So rude — I didn't 
see you : but the fact is, we are all in such a bustle ! Augustus 
has got Lady Pimlico's box for the Puritani to-night, and I 
vowed I'd take the children." 

Those young persons were evidently from their costume 
prepared for some extraordinarj^ festival. Miss Barbara- Jane, 
a young lady of six years old, in a pretty pink slip and white 
m\islin, her dear little poll bristling over with papers, to be re- 
moved previous to the play ; while Master Ferdinand had a pair 
of nankeens (I can recollect Timson in them in the 3'ear 1825 

— a great buck), and white silk stockings, which belonged to 
his mamma. His frill was ver}' large and very clean, and he 
was fumbling perpetually at a pair of white kid gloves, which 
his mamma forbade him to assume before the opera. 

And ^' Look here ! " and ''Oh, precious ! " and ''Oh, my ! " 
were uttered by these worthy people as they severally beheld 
the vast bouquet, into which Mrs. Timson's head flounced, just 
as her husband's had done before. 

" I must have a green-house at the Snugger}-, that's positive, 
Timson, for I'm passionately fond of flowers — and how kind 
of Lady Fanny ! Do you know her ladyship, Mr. Smith?" 

" Indeed, Madam, I don't remember having ever spoken to 
a lord or a. lady in my life." 

Timson smiled in a supercilious way. Mrs. Timson ex- 
claimed, " La, how odd ! Augustus knows ever so many. Let's 
see, there's the Countess of Pimlico and Lady Fanny Flummery ; 
Lord Doldrum (Timson touched up his travels, you know) ; 
Lord Gasterton, Lord Guttlebury's eldest son ; Lady Pawpaw 
(they say she ought not to be visited, though) ; Baron Strum 

— fStrom — Strumpf " 

AVhnt the baron's name was I have never been able to learn ; 
for here Timson burst out with a " Hold your tongue, Bessy ! " 
which stopped honest Mrs. Timson's harmless prattle altogether, 
and obliged that worthy woman to say meekly, "Well, Gus, 
I did not think there was any harm in mentioning your ac- 
quaintance." Good soul ! it was only because she took pride in 
her Timson that she loved to enumerate the great names of the 
persons who did him honor. My friend the editor was, in fact, 
in a cruel position, looking foolish before his old acquaintance, 
stricken in that unfortunate sore point in his honest, good- 
humored character. The man adored the aristocrac}^ and had 
that wonderful respect for a lord which, perhaps the observant 



THE FASHIONABLE AUTHORESS. 335 

reader ma}" have remarked, especiallj^ characterizes men of 
Timson's way of thinking. 

In okl da^s at the chib (we held it in a small public-house 
near the Coburg Theatre, some of us having free admissions to 
that place of amusement, and some of us living for convenience 
in the immediate neighborhood of one of his Majest3''s prisons 
in that quarter) — in old days, I sa}^ at our spouting and 
toasted-cheese club, called "The Forum," Timson was called 
Brutus Timson, and not Augustus, in consequence of the fero- 
cious republicanism which characterized him, and his utter 
scorn and hatred of a bloated, do-nothing aristocrac3\ His 
letters in The Weekly Sentinel^ signed " Lictor," must be re- 
membered b}' all our readers : he advocated the repeal of the 
corn laws, the burning of machines, the rights of labor, &c. &c., 
wrote some pretty defences of Robespierre, and used seriously" 
to avow, when at all in liquor, that, in consequence of those 
"Lictor" letters. Lord Castlereagh had tried to have him 
murdered, and thrown over Blackfriars Bridge. 

By what means Augustus Timson rose to his present ex- 
alted position it is needless here to state ; suffice it, that in two 
3"ears he was completel}^ bound over neck-and-heels to the 
bloodthirsty aristocrats, hereditary t3'rants, &c. One evening 
he was asked to dine with a secretar}^ of the Treasmy (the 
.... is Ministerial, and has been so these fort3^-nine years) ; 
at the house of that secretar}"^ of the Treasur3" he met a lord's 
son : walking with Mrs. Timson in the Park next Sunday, that 
lord's son saluted him. Timson was from that moment a slave, 
had his coats made at the west end, cut his wife's relations 
(they are dealers in marine-stores, and live at Wapping), and 
had his name put down at two Clubs. 

Who was the lord's son? Lord Pimlico's son, to be sure, 
the Honorable Frederick Flummery, who married Lady Fanny 
Foxy, daughter of Pitt Castlereagh, second Earl of Reynard, 
Kilbrush Castle, county Kildare. The earl had been ambassa- 
dor in '14 : Mr. Flummer3', ^^^ attache : he was twenty-one at 
that time, with the sweetest tuft on his chin in the world. 
Lady Fanny was only four-and-twent3', just jilted b3' Prince 
Scoronconcolo, the horrid man who had married Miss Solomon- 
son with a plum. Fanny had nothing — Frederick had about 
seven thousand pounds less. What better could the 3'oung 
things do than marry? Marry they did, and in the most deli- 
cious secrec}'. Okl Reynard was charmed to have an opportu- 
nity of breaking with one of his daughters for ever, and only 
longed for an occasion never to forgive the other nine. 



336 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

A wit of the Prince's time, who inherited and transmitted to 
his children a vast fortune in genius, was cautioned on his 
marriage to be very economical. "Economical!" said he; 
'• ni}- wife has nothing, and I have nothing : I suppose a man 
can't live under that T' Our interesting pair, b}' judiciousl}" 
employing the same capital, managed, 3'ear after year, to live 
ver}' comfortabl3% until, at last, the}^ were received into Pimlico 
House b}' the dowager (who has it for her life), where they live 
very magnificentl}^ Lady Fann}^ gives the most magnificent 
entertainment in London, has the most magnificent equipage, 
and a very fine husband ; who has his equipage as fine as her 
ladyship's ; his seat in the omnibus, while her ladyship is in 
the second tier. The}^ sa}^ he pla3^s a good deal — ay, and 
pays, too, when he loses. 

And how, pr'ythee? Her ladyship is a Fashionable Au- 
thoress. She has been at this game for fifteen years ; during 
w^hich period she has published forty-five novels, edited twenty- 
seven new magazines, and I don't know how many annuals, 
besides publishing poems, plays, desultor^^ thoughts, memoirs, 
recollections of travel, and pamphlets without number. Going 
one da}^ to church, a lady, whom I knew by her Leghorn bonnet 
and red ribbons, ruche with poppies and marigolds, brass fer- 
roniere, great red hands, black silk gown, thick shoes, and 
black silk stockings ; a lady, whom I knew, 1 say, to be a devo- 
tional cook, made a bob to me just as the psalm struck up, and 
offered me a share of her h3unn-book. It was, — 

HEAVENLY CHORDS; 

A COLLECTION OF 

SACRED STRAINS, 

SELECTED, COMPOSED, AND EDITED, BY THE 

LADY FRANCES JULIANA FLUMMERY. 

— Being simply a collection of heavenly chords robbed from 
the lyres of Watts, Wesley, Brady and Tate, &c. ; and of 
sacred strains from the rare collection of Sternhold and Hop- 
kins. Out of this, cook and I sang ; and it is amazing how 
much our fervor was increased by thinking that our devotions 
were directed by a lady whose name was in the Red Book. 

The thousands of pages that Lady Fanny Flummery has 
covered witli ink exceed all belief. You must have remarked. 
Madam, in respect of this literary fecundity, that your amiable 
sex possesses vastly greater capabilities than we do ; and that 



THE FASHION"ABLE AUTHORESS. 337 

while a man is painfully laboring over a letter of two sides, a 
lad}' will produce a dozen pages, crossed, dashed, and so 
beautifully neat and close, as to be wellnigh invisible. The 
readiest of ready pens has Lady Fanny ; her Pegasus gallops 
over hot-pressed satin so as to distance all gentlemen riders : 
like Camilla, it scours the plain — of Bath, and never seems 
punished or fatigued ; only it runs so fast that it often leaves 
all sense behind it ; and there it goes on, on, scribble, scribble, 
scribble, never flagging until it arrives at that fair winning-post 
on which is written " finis," or, " the end ; " and shows that 
the course, whether it be of novel, annual, poem, or what not, 
is complete. 

Now, the author of these pages doth not pretend to describe 
the inward thoughts, ways, and manner of being, of my Lady 
Fanny, having made before that humiliating confession, that 
lords and ladies are personally unknown to him ; so that all 
milliners, butchers' ladies, dashing young clerks, and appren- 
tices, or other persons who are anxious to cultivate a knowledge 
of the aristocracy, had better skip over this article altogether. 
But he hath heard it whispered, from pretty good authority, 
that the manners and customs of these men and women resem- 
ble, in no inconsiderable degree, the habits and usages of other 
men and women, whose names are unrecorded by Debrett. 
Granting this, and that Lady Fanny is a woman pretty much 
like another, the philosophical reader will be content that we 
rather consider her ladyship in her public capacity, and examine 
her influence upon mankind in general. 

Her person, then, being thus put out of the way, her works, 
too, need not be very carefully sifted and criticised ; for what 
is the use of peering into a millstone, or making calculations 
about the figiu^e ? The woman has not, in fact, the slightest 
influence upon literature for good or for evil : there are a certain 
number of fools whom she catches in her flimsy traps ; and why 
not? They are made to be humbugged, or how should we live? 
Lady Flummery w^rites everything; that is, nothing. Her 
poetry is mere wind ; her novels, stark nought ; her philosophy, 
sheer vacancy : how should she do any better than she does ? 
how could she succeed if she did do any better? If she did 
write well, she would not be Lady Flummery ; she would not 
be praised by Timson and the critics, because she would be an 
honest woman, and would not bribe them! Nay, she would 
probably be written down b}- Timson and Co., because, being 
an honest woman, she utterly despised them and their craft. ^ 

We have said what she writes for the most part. Individ- 

22 



338 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

uallj^ she will throw off any number of novels that Messrs. 
Soap and Diddle will pay for ; and collectively, by the aid of 
self and friends, scores of " Lyrics of Loveliness," " Beams of 
Beauty," "Pearls of Purit}-," &c. Who does not recollect the 
success which her " Pearls of the Peerage " had? She is going 
to do the "Beauties of the Baronetage;" then we shall have 
the " Daughters of the Dustmen," or some such other collection 
of portraits. Lad}^ Flummery has around her a score of literar}' 
gentlemen, who are bound to her, bod}^ and soul : give them a 
dinner, a smile from an opera-box, a wave of the hand in 
Rotten Row, and they are hers, neck and heels. Vides, mijili^ 
&c. See, m}^ son, with what a very small dose of humbug 
men are to be bought. I know many of these individuals : 
there is my friend M' Lather, an immense, pudgy man: I saw 
him one day walking through Bond Street in company with an 
enormous ruby breastpin. "Mac!" shouted jour humble 
servant, "that is a Flummery rubj- ; " and Mac hated and 
cursed us ever after. Presentl}^ came little Fitch, the artist ; 
he was rigged out in an illuminated velvet waistcoat — Flum- 
mery again — "There's only one like it in town," whispered 
Fitch to me confidentially, "and Flummer}' has that.' To be 
sure. Fitch had given, in return, half a dozen of the prettiest 
drawings in the world. "I wouldn't charge for them, you 
know," he says : " for, hang it. Lady Flummer}' is my friend." 
Oh, Fitch, Fitch ! 

Fifty more instances could be adduced of her ladyship's 
ways of briber}'. She bribes the critics to praise her, and the 
writers to write for her ; and the public flocks to her as it will 
to any other tradesman who is properly puffed. Out comes 
the book ; as for its merits, we may allow, cheerfully, that 
Lad}^ Flummery has no lack of that natural esprit which every 
woman possesses ; but here praise stops. For the style, she 
does not know her own language ; but, in revenge, has a 
smattering of half a dozen others. She interlards her works 
with fearful quotations from the French, fiddle-faddle extracts 
from Italian operas, German phrases fiercelj^ mutilated, and a 
scrap or two of bad Spanish : and upon the strength of these 
murders, she calls herself an authoress. To be sure there is 
no such word as authoress. If any young nobleman or gentle- 
man of Eton College, when called upon to indite a copy of 
verses in praise of Sappho, or the Countess of Dash, or Lady 
Charlotte What-d',ye-call-'em, or the Honorable Mrs. Some- 
body, should fondl}' imagine that he might apply to those fair 
creatiu'es the title of auctrix — I pity that young nobleman's or 



THE FASHIONABLE AUfHOKESS. 339 

gentleman's case. Doctor Wordsworth and assistants would 
swish that error out of him in a way that need not here be 
mentioned. Remember it henceforth, 3'e writeresses — there is 
no such word as authoress. Auctor, Madam, is the word. 
^^ Optima til proprii nominis auctor eris;" which, of course, 
means that you are, by 3^our proper name, an author, not an 
authoress : the line is in Ainsworth's Dictionar}', where any- 
body may see it. 

This point is settled then : there is no such word as author- 
ess. But what of that? Are authoresses to be bound by the 
rules of grammar? The supposition is absurd. We don't 
expect them to know their own language ; we prefer rather the 
little graceful pranks and hberties they take with it. When, 
for instance, a celebrated authoress, who wi'ote a Diaress, calls 
somebodj' the prototype of his own father, we feel an obligation 
to her lad3'ship ; the language feels an obligation ; it has a 
charm and a privilege with which it was never before endowed : 
and it is manifest, that if we can call ourselves antetypes of 
our grandmothers — can prophesj' what we had for dinner 3'es- 
terday, and so on, we get into a new range of thought, and 
discover sweet regions of fancy and poetr^^, of which the mind 
hath never even had a notion until now. 

It may be then considered as certain that an authoress 
ought not to know her own tongue. Literature and politics 
have this privilege in common, that any ignoramus may excel 
in both. No apprenticeship is required, that is certain ; and if 
an3^ gentleman doubts, let us refer him to the popular works of 
the present day, where, if he find a particle of scholarship, 
or any acquaintance with any books in any language, or if he 
be disgusted by any absurd, stiff, old-fashioned notions of 
grammatical propriet3', we are read3' to qualify our assertion. 
A friend of ours came to us the other day in great trouble. His 
dear little bo3^ who had been for some months attache to the 
stables of Mr. Tilbury's establishment, took a fancy to the cor- 
duroy breeches of some other gentleman employed in the same 
emporium — appropriated them, and afterwards disposed of 
them for a trifling sum to a relation — I believe his uncle. 
For this liarmless freak, poor Sam was absolutely seized, tried 
at Clerkenwell Sessions, and condemned to six months' useless 
rotatory labor at the House of Correction. "The poor fellow 
was bad enough before, sir," said his father, confiding in our 
philanthropy: 'Mie picked up such a deal of slang among the 
stable-boys : but if 3'ou could hear him since he came from 
the mill ! he knocks you down with it, sir. I am afraid, sir, 



340 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

of his becoming a regular prig : for though he's a 'cute chap, 
can read and write, and is might}^ smart and hand}'^, 3^et no 
one will take him into service, on account of that business of 
the breeches ! " 

"What, sir!" exclaimed we, amazed at the man's simpli- 
city ; " such a son, and 3'ou don't know what to do with him ! 
a "cute fellow, who can write, who has been educated in a 
stable-3'ard, and has had six months' polish in a universitj' — I 
mean a prison — and you don't know what to do with him? 
Make ?l fashionable novelist of him, and be hanged to ^''ou ! " 
And proud am I to say that that young man, every evening, 
after he comes home from his work (he has taken to street- 
sweeping in the da}', and I don't advise him to relinquish a 
certaint};) — proud am I to say that he devotes every evening 
to literary composition, and is coming out with a novel, in 
numbers, of the most fashionable kind. 

This little episode is only given for the sake of example ; 
par exemple^ as our authoress would say, w^io delights in French 
of the very worst kind. The public likes only the extremes of 
societ}', and votes mediocrity vulgar. From the Author they 
will take nothing but Fleet Ditch ; from the Authoress, only 
the ver}' finest of rose-water. 1 have read so many of her lady- 
ship's novels, that, egad ! now I don't care for anything under 
a marquis. Why the deuce should we listen to the intrigues, 
the misfortunes, the virtues, and conversations of a couple of 
countesses, for instance, when we can have duchesses for our 
mone}'? What's a baronet? pish ! pish ! that great coarse red 
fist in his scutcheon turns me sick ! "What's a baron? a fellow 
with only one more ball than a pawnbroker ; and, upon my 
conscience, just as common. Dear Lady Flummery, in 3'our 
next novel, give us no more of these low people ; nothing under 
strawberry leaves, for the mercy of heaven ! Suppose, now, 
you write us 

ALBERT; 

OK, 

WHISPERINGS AT WINDSOR. 

BY THE LADY FRANCES FLUMMERY. 

There is a subject — fashionable circles, curious revelations, 
exclusive excitement, &c. To be sure, you must here introduce 
a viscount, and that is sadly vulgar ; but we will pass him for 
the sake of the ministerial portefeuille^ which is genteel. Tlsen 
you might do "Leopold; or, "the Bride of Neuilly ; " "The 



THE FASHIONABLE AUTHOrvESS. 341 

Victim of Wiirtemberg ; " " Olga ; or, the Autocrat's Daugh- 
ter" (a capital title) ; ^^ Henri.; or, Rome in the Nineteenth 
Centurj' ; " we can fanc}^ the book, and a sweet paragraph 
about it in Timson's paper. 

" Henri, b}^ Laclj^ Frances Flummery — Henri! Who can 
he be? a little bird whispers in our ear, that the gifted and 
talented Sappho of our hemisphere has discovered some curious 
particulars in the life of a certain young chevalier^ whose appear- 
ance at Rome has so frightened the court of the Tu-1-ries. 
Henri de B-rd — ux is of an age when the young god can shoot 
his darts into the bosom with fatal accurac}' ; and if the Mar- 
chesina degli Spinach! (whose portrait our lovel}' authoress has 
sung with a kindred hand) be as beauteous as she is represented 
(and as all who have visited in the exclusive circles of the 
Eternal City say she is), no wonder at her effect upon the Pr-nce. 
Verhum sap. We hear that a few copies are still remaining. 
The enterprising publishers, Messrs. Soap and Diddle, Lave 
announced, we see, several other works by the same accom- 
plished pen." 

This paragraph makes its appearance, in small t3'pe, in the 
. . . . b}^ the side, perhaps, of a disinterested recommendation 
of bears'-gi'ease, or some remarks on the extraordinar}' cheap- 
ness of plate in Cornhill. Well, two or three days after, my 
dear Timson, who has been asked to dinner, writes in his own 
hand, and causes to be printed in the largest t3'pe, an article to 
the following effect : — 

"HENRI. 
"by lady f. flummery. 

' ' This is another of the graceful evergreens which the fair 
fingers of Lady Fanny Flummery are continually- strewing upon 
our path. At once profound and caustic, truthful and pas- 
sionate, we are at a loss whether most to admire the maul}' 
grandeur of her ladj'ship's mind, or the exquisite nymph-like 
delicacy of it. Strange power of fancy ! Sweet enchantress, 
that rules the mind at will : stirring up the utmost depths of it 
into passion and storm, or wreathing and dimpling its calm sur- 
face with countless summer smiles. As a great Bard of old 
Time has expressed it, what do we not owe to woman ? 

"What do we not owe her? More love, more happiness, 
more calm of vexed spirit, more truthful aid, and pleasant 



342 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

counsel ; in jo}^ more delicate sympath}' ; in sorrow, more kind 
companionship. We look into her cheer}^ eyes, and, in those 
wells of love, care drowns ; we listen to her siren voice, and, in 
that balmy music, banished hopes come winging to the breast 
again," 

This goes on for about three-quarters of a column : I don't 
pretend to understand it ; but with flowers, angels, Words- 
worth's poems, and the old dramatists, one can never be wrong, 
I think ; and though I have written the above paragraphs my- 
self, and don't understand a word of them, I can't, upon my 
conscience, help thinking that they are mighty pretty writing. 
After, then, this has gone on for about three-quarters of a 
column (Timson does it in spare minutes, and fits it to any 
book that Lady Fanny brings out), he proceeds to particularize, 
thus ;— ' 

"The griding excitement which thrills through every fibre 
of the soul as we peruse these passionate pages, is almost too 
painful to bear. Nevertheless, one drains the draughts of 
poesy to the dregs, so dehciously intoxicating is its nature. 
We defy any man who begins these volumes to quit them ere 
he has perused each line. The plot may be briefly told as 
thus : — Henri, an exiled prince of Franconia (it is easy to un- 
derstand the flimsy allegory), arrives at Rome, and is presented 
to the sovereign Pontiff". At a feast, given in his honor at the 
Vatican, a dancing girl (the loveliest creation that ever issued 
from poet's brain) is introduced, and exhibits some specimens 
of her art. The young prince is instantaneously smitten with 
the charms of the Saltatrice ; he breathes into her ear the accents 
of his love, and is listened to with favor. He has, however, a 
rival, and a powerful one. The Pope has already cast his eye 
upon the Apulian maid, and burns with lawless passion. One 
of the grandest scenes ever writ, occurs between the rivals. 
The Pope oflfers to Castanetta every temptation ; he will even 
resign his crown and marry her ; but she refuses. The prince 
can make no such oflfers ; he cannot wed her : ' The blood of 
Borbone,' he says, ' may not be thus misallied.' He determines 
to avoid her. in despair, she throws herself off" the Tarpeian 
rock ; and the Pope becomes a maniac. Such is an outline of 
this tragic tale. 

" Besides this fabulous and melancholy part of the narrative, 
which is unsurpassed, much is written in the gay and sparkling 



THE FASHIONABLE AUTHORESS. 343 

st3'le for which our lovely author is unrivalled. The sketch of 
the Marchesina degli Spinach! and her lover, the Duca cli Gam- 
moni, is deUcious ; and the intrigue between the beautiful 
Princess Kalbsbraten and Count Bouterbrod is exquisitely 
painted ; everybod}^ of course, knows who these characters are. 
The discovery of the manner in which Kartoffeln, the Saxon 
envoy, poisons the princess's dishes, is only a graceful and real 
repetition of a story which was agitated throughout all the 
diplomatic circles last year. Schinken, the Westphalian, must 
not be forgotten ; nor 011a, the Spanish Spy. How does Lady 
Fanny Flummery, poet as she is, possess a sense of the ridicu- 
lous and a keenness of perception which would do honor to a 
Rabelais or a Rochefoucauld? To those who ask this question, 
we have one reply, and that an example : — Not among women, 
'tis true : for till the Lady Fann}^ came among us, woman never 
soared so high. Not among women, indeed ! — but in compar- 
ing her to that great spirit for whom our veneration is highest 
and holiest, we offer no dishonor to his shrine : — in saying that 
he who wrote of Romeo and Desdemona might have drawn 
Castanetta and Enrico, we utter but the truthful expressions of 
our hearts ; in asserting that so long as Shakspeare lives, so 
long will Flummery endure ; in declaring that he who rules in 
all hearts, and over all spirits and all climes, has found a con- 
genial spirit, we do but justice to Lady Fanny — justice to him 
who sleeps by Avon ! " 

With which we had better, perhaps, conclude. Our object 
has been, in descanting upon the Fashionable Authoress, to 
point out the influence which her writing possesses over society, 
rather than to criticise her life. The former is quite harmless ; 
and we don't pretend to be curious about the latter. The 
woman herself is not so blamable ; it is the silly people who 
cringe at her feet that do the mischief, and, gulled themselves, 
gull the most gullible of publics. Think you, O Timson, that 
her ladyship asks you for your beaux yeux or your wit? Fool ! 
you do think so, or try and think so ; and yet you know she loves 
not you, but the ... . newspaper. Think, little Fitch, in your 
fine waistcoat, how dearly you have paid for it! Tliink, 
M'Lather, how many smirks, and lies, and columns of good 
three-halfpence-a-line matter that big garnet pin has cost you ! 
the woman laughs at you, man ! you, who fancy that she is 
smitten with you — laughs at your absurd pretensions, your 
way of eating fish at dinner, your great hands, your eyes, your 
whiskers, your coat, and your strange north-country twang. 



344 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

Down with this Delilah ! A vaunt, Circe ! giver of poisonous 
feeds. To 3'our natural haunts, ye gentlemen of the press ! if 
bachelors, frequent 3'our taverns, and be content. Better is 
Sally the waiter, and the first cut of the joint, than a dinner of 
four courses, and humbug therewith. Ye who are married, go 
to 3'our homes ; dine not with those persons who scorn 3'Our 
wives. Go not forth to parties, that ye may act Tom Fool for 
the amusement of my lord and my lady ; but play your natural 
follies among your natural friends. Do this for a few 3'ears, 
and the Fashionable Authoress is extinct. O Jove, what a 
prospect ! She, too, has retreated to her own natural calhng, 
being as much out of place in a book as 3'ou, m3' dear M'Lather, 
in a drawing-room. Let milliners look up to her; let Howell 
and James swear b3^ her ; let simpering dandies caper about her 
car ; let her write poetr3^ if she likes, but onl3^ for the most 
exclusive circles; let mantua-makers puff her — but not men: 
let such things be, and the Fashionable Authoress is no more ! 
Blessed, blessed thought ! No more fiddle-faddle novels ! no 
more namby-pamb3^ poetr3^ ! no more fribble ' ' Blossoms of 
Loveliness ! " When will you arrive, happy Golden Age? 



THE ARTISTS 



It is confidently stated that there was once a time when the 
quarter of Soho was thronged b}^ the fashion "of London. Many 
wide streets are there in the neighborhood, stretching cheer- 
fully towards Middlesex Hospital in the north, bounded by 
Dean Street in the west, where the lords and ladies of Wil- 
liam's time used to dwell, — till in Queen Anne's time, Blooms- 
bury put Soho out of fashion, and Great Russell Street became 
the pink of the mode. 

Both these quarters of the town have submitted to the awful 
rule of nature, and are now to be seen undergoing the dire 
process of decay. Fashion has deserted Soho, and left her in 
her gaunt, lonely old age. The houses have a vast, dingy, 
mouldy, dowager look. No more beaux, in might}- periwigs, 
ride by in gilded clattering coaches ; no more lacke3's accom- 
pany them, bearing torches, and shouting for precedence. A 
solitary policeman paces these solitar}' streets, — the only 
dandy in the neignborhood. You hear the milkman 3'elling 
his milk with a startling distinctness, and the clack of a ser- 
vant-girl's pattens sets people a-staring from the windows. 

With Bloomsbury we have here nothing to do ; but as gen- 
teel stock-brokers inhabit the neighborhood of Regent's Park, 
— as law3'ers have taken possession of Russell Square, — so 
Artists have seized upon the desolate quarter of Soho. They 
are to be found in great numbers in Berners Street. Up to 
the present time, naturalists have never been able to account 
for this m3'ster3' of their residence. What has a painter to 
do with Middlesex Hospital ? He is to be found in Charlotte 
Street, Fitzroy Square. And why? Philosophy cannot tell, 
any more than why milk is found in a cocoa-nut. 



346 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

Look at Newinaii Street. Has earth, in any dismal corner 
of her great round face, a spot more desperate!}' gloomy? The 
windows are spotted with wafers, holding up ghastly bills, that 
tell you the house is ''To Let." Nobody walks there — not 
even an old-clothes-man ; the first inhabited house has bars to 
the windows, and bears the name of " Ahasuerus, officer to the 
Sheriff of Middlesex ; " and here, above all places, must paint- 
ers take up their quarters, — da}' by day must these reckless 
people pass Ahasuerus's treble gate. There was my poor friend, 
Tom Tickner (who did those sweet things for '• The Book of 
Beauty"). Tom, who could not pay his washerwoman, lived 
opposite the bailiff's ; and could see every miserable debtor, or 
greasy Jew writ-bearer that went in or out of his door. The 
street begins with a baililf's, and ends with a hospital. I 
wonder how men live in it, and are decently cheerful, with this 
gloom}', double-barrelled moral pushed perpetualh' into their 
faces. Here, however, they persist in living, no one knows 
wliy ; owls may still be found roosting in Netley Abbe}-, aud a 
few Arabs are to be seen at the present minute in Palmyra. 

The ground-floors of the houses where painters live are 
mostly make-believe shops, black empty warehouses, contain- 
ing fabulous goods. There is a sedan-chair opposite a house 
in Rathbone Place, that 1 have myself seen every day for forty- 
three years. The house has commonly a huge india-rubber- 
colored door, with a couple of glistening brass-plates and bells. 
A portrait-painter lives on the first floor; a great historical 
genius inhabits the second. Remark tlie first- floor's middle 
drawing-room window ; it is four feet higher than its two com- 
panions, and has taken a fancy to peep into the second-floor 
front. So much for the outward appearance of their habita- 
tions, and for the quarters in which they commonly dwell. 
They seem to love solitude, and their mighty spirits rejoice 
in vastness and gloomy ruin. 

I don't say a word here about those geniuses who frequent 
the thoroughfares of the town, and have picture-frames con- 
taining a little gallery of miniature peers, beauties, and general 
officers, in the Quadrant, the passages about St. Martin's Lane, 
the Strand, and Cheapside. Lord Lyndhurst is to be seen in 
many of these gratis exhibitions — Lord Lyndhurst cribbed 
from Chalon ; Lady Peel from Sir Thomas ; Miss Croker from 
the same ; the Duke, from ditto ; an original officer in the 
Spanish Legion ; a colonel or so, of the Bunhill-Row Fenci- 
blcs ; a lady on a yellow sofa, with four children in little caps 
aud blue ribbons. We have all of us seen these pretty pictures, 



THE ARTISTS. 347 

and are aware that our own features ma}- be " done in this 
style." Then there is the man on the chain-pier at Brighton, 
who pares out 3'our likeness in sticking-plaster ; there is Miss 
Croke, or Miss Runt, who gives lessons in Poonah-painting, 
japanning, or mezzotinting ; Miss Stump, who attends ladies' 
schools with large chalk heads from Le Brun or the Cartoons ; 
Rubber}', who instructs young gentlemen's establishments in 
pencil ; and Sepio, of the Water-Color Societ}-, who paints 
before eight pupils daily, at a guinea an hour, keeping his own 
drawings for himself. 

All these persons, as the most indifferent reader must see, 
equall}- belong to the tribe of Artists (the last not more than 
the first), and in an article like this should be mentioned 
properl}'. But though this paper has been extended from 
eight pages to sixteen, not a volume would suffice to do jus- 
tice to the biographies of the persons above mentioned. Think 
of the superb Sepio, in a light-blue satin cravat, and a light- 
brown coat, and yellow kids, tripping daintily from Grosvenor 
Square to Gloucester Place, a small sugar-loaf boy following, 
who carries his morocco portfolio. Sepic^ scents his handker- 
cliief, curls his hair, and wears, on a great coarse fist a large 
emerald ring that one of his pupils gave him. He would not 
smoke a cigar for the world ; he is always to be found at the 
Opera ; and, gods ! how he grins, and waggles his head about, 
as Lad}' Flummery nods to him from her box. 

He goes to at least six great parties in the season. At the 
houses where he teaches, he has a faint hope that he is received 
as an equal, and propitiates scornful footmen by absurd dona- 
tions of sovereigns. The rogue has plenty of them. He has 
a stock-broker, and a power of guinea-lessons stowed away in 
the Consols. There are a number of 3'oung ladies of genius in 
the aristocrac}' , who admire him hugel}- ; he begs 3'ou to con- 
tradict the report about him and Lady Smigsmag ; every now 
and then he gets a present of game from a marquis ; the cit}^ 
ladies die to have lessons of him ; he prances about the Park 
on a high-bred cock- tail, with Irx'quered boots and enormous 
high heels ; and he has a mother and sisters somewhere — 
washerwomen, it is said, in Pimlico. 

How different is his fate to that of poor Rubbery, the 
school drawing-master ! Highgate, Homerton, Putney, Hack- 
ney, Hornsey, Turnham Green, are his resorts ; he has a select 
seminary to attend at ever}- one of these places ; and if, from 
all these nurseries of youth, he obtains a sufiicient number of 
half-crowns to pay his week's bills, what a happy man is he ! 



348 CHARACTER SKETCHED. _ 

He lives most likely in a thlM floor hi Howlalid Street, and 
has commonly five cliildi'eil, who have all a marvellous talent 
for drawing — all save one, perhaps, tliat is an idiot, which a 
poor, sick mother is ever carefully tending. Sepio's great aini 
and battle in life is to be considered one of the aristoci-acy ; 
honest Rilbbery Would fain be tliought a gentleman, too 5 but^ 
indeed, he does liot know whether he is so or not. Why be a 
gentleman ? — a gentleman Artist does not obtain the wages of 
a tailor ; Rubberj^'s butcher looks down upon him with a royal 
scorn ; and his wife, poor gentle soul (a clergyman's daughter, 
yfho married hitn in the firm belief that her Jolni would be 
knighted, and make an immense fortune), — his wife, I sa}^ 
has man}' fierce looks to suffer from Mrs. Butcher, and man}^ 
meek excuses or prayers to proffer, when she cannot pay her 
bill, — or when, worst of all, she has humblj^ to beg for a httle 
scrap of meat upon credit, agaiust John's coming home. He 
has five-and-twenty miles to walk that da}', and must have 
something nourishing when he comes in — he is killing him- 
self, poor fellow, she knows he is : and Miss Crick has prom- 
ised to pay him his quarter's charge on the ver}' next Saturda}^ 
''Gentlefolks, indeed," says Mrs. Butcher; "pretty- gentle- 
folks these, as can't pa}' for half a pound of steak ! " Let us 
thank heaven that the Artist's wife has her meat, however, — 
there is good in that shrill, fat, mottle-faced Mrs. Brisket, 
after all. 

Think of the labors of that poor Rubber}'. He was up at 
four in the morning, and toiled till nine upon a huge damp 
icy lithographic stone ; on which he has drawn the ''Star of 
the Wave," or the " Queen of the Tourney," or, " She met at 
Almack's,'' for Lady Flummery's last new song. "This done, 
at half-past nine, he is to be seen striding across Kensington 
Gardens, to wait upon the before-named Miss Crick, at Lamont 
House. Transport yourself in imagination to the Misses Kittle's 
seminary, Potzdam Villa, Upper Homerton, four miles from 
Shoreditch : and at half-past two, Professor Rubbery is to be 
seen swinging along towards the gate. Somebody is on the 
look-out for him ; indeed it is his eldest daughter, Marianne, 
who has been pacing the shrubbery, and peering over the green 
railings this half-hour past. She is with the Misses Kittle 
on the " mutual system," a thousand times' more despised than 
the butchers' and the grocers' daughters, who are educated on 
the same terms, and whose papas are warm men in Aldgate. 
Wednesday is the happiest day of Marianne's week • and this 
the happiest hour of Wednesday. Behold ! Professor Rub- 



THE ARTISTS. 349 

bery wipes his hot brows and kisses the poor thing, and the}' 
go in together out of the rain, and he tells her that the twins 
are well out of the measles, thank God ! and that Tom has 
just done the Antinous, in a wa}' that must make him sure of 
the Academy prize, and that mother is better of her rheuma- 
tism now. He has brought her a letter, in large round-hand, 
from Polly ; a famous soldier, drawn by little Frank ; and 
when, after his two hours' lesson, Rubbery is off again, our 
dear Marianne cons over the letter and picture a hundred times 
with soft tearful smiles, and stows them awa^' in an old writing- 
desk, amidst a heap more of precious home relics, wretched 
trumpery scraps and baubles, that you and I, Madam, would 
sneer at ; but that in the poor child's eyes (and, I think, in the 
e^-es of One who knows how to value widows' mites and humble 
sinners' offerings) are better than bank-notes and Pitt diamonds. 
O kind heaven, that has given these treasures to the poor! 
Many and many an hour does Marianne lie awake with full 
e^^es, and yearn for that wretched old lodging in Howland 
Street, where mother and brothers lie sleeping ; and, gods ! 
what a fete it is, when twice or thrice in the year she comes 
home ! 

I forget how many hundred millions of miles, for how many 
billions of centuries, how many thousands of decillions of angels, 
peris, hour is, demons, afreets, and the like, Mahomet travelled, 
lived, and counted, during the time that some water was falling 
from a bucket to the ground ; but have we not been wandering 
most egregiously away from Rubbery, during the minute in 
which his daughter is changfng his shoes, and taking off his reek- 
ing mackintosh in the hall of Potzdam Villa? She thinks him 
the finest artist that ever cut an H. B. ; that's positive : and as 
a drawing-master, his merits are wonderful ; for at the Misses 
Kittle's annual vacation festival, when the young ladies' draw- 
ings are exhibited to their mammas and relatives (Rubbery 
attending in a clean shirt, with his wife's large brooch stuck 
in it, and drinking negus along with the very best) ; — at the 
annual festival, I say, it will be found that the sixt3'-four 
drawings exhibited — " Tintern Abbey," " Kenilworth Castle," 
"Horse — from Carl Vernet," "Head — from West," or what 
not (say sixteen of each sort) — are the one exactly as good as 
the other ; so that, although Miss Slamcoe gets the prize, there 
is really no reason why Miss Timson, who is onl}- four years 
old, should not have it; her design being accurateh' stroke for 
stroke, tree for tree, curl for curl, the same as Miss Slamcoe's, 



350 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

who is eighteen. The fact is, that of these drawings, Rubbery, 
in the course of the year, has done every single stroke, although 
the girls and their parents are read}^ to take their affidavits (or, 
as I heard once a great female grammarian say, their affies davit) 
that the drawing-master has never been near the sketches. 
This is the way with them ; but mark I — when young ladies 
come home, are settled in life, and mammas of families, — can 
they design so much as a horse, or a dog, or a " moo-cow" for 
little Jack who bawls out for them? Not the^M Rubbery's 
pupils have no more notion of drawing, an}^ more than Sepio's 
of painting, when that eminent artist is away. 

Between these two gentlemen, lie a whole class of teachers 
of drawing, who resemble them more or less. I am ashamed 
to say that Rubbery takes his pipe in the parlor of an hotel, of 
which the largest room is devoted to the convenience of poor 
people, amateurs of British gin : whilst Sepio trips down to the 
Club, and has a pint of the smallest claret : but of course the 
tastes of men vary ; and you find them simple or presuming, 
careless or prudent, natural and vulgar, or false and atrociously 
genteel, in all ranks and stations of life. 

As for the other persons mentioned at the beginning of this 
discourse, viz. the cheap portrait-painter, the portrait-cutter in 
sticking-plaster, and Miss Croke, the teacher of mezzotint and 
Poonali-painting, — nothing need be said of them in this place, 
as we have to speak of matters more important. Only about 
Miss Croke, or about other professors of cheap art, let the 
reader most sedulously avoid them. Mezzotinto is a take-in, 
Poonah-painting a rank, villanous deception. So is "Grecian 
art without brush or pencils." These are only small mechanical 
contrivances, over which young ladies are made to lose time. 
And now, having disposed of these small skirmishers who hover 
round the great body of Artists, we are arrived in presence of 
the main force, that we must begiji to attack in form. In the 
"partition of the earth," as it has been described by Schiller, 
the reader will remember that the poet, finding himself at the 
end of a general scramble without a single morsel of plunder, 
applied passionatel}' to Jove, who pitied the poor fellow's con- 
dition, and complimented him with a seat in the Empyrean. 
"The strong and the cunning," saj^s Jupiter, "have seized 
upon the inheritance of the world, whilst thou wert star-gazing 
and rhyming : not one single acre remains wherewith I can 
endow thee ; but, in revenge, if thou art disposed to visit me 
in my own heaven, come when thou wilt, it is always open to 
thee." 



THE ARTISTS. 351 

The cunning and strong have scrambled and struggled more 
on our own little native spot of earth than in an}' other place 
on the world's surface ; and the English poet (whether he 
handles a pen or a pencil (has little other refuge . than that 
windy, unsubstantial one which Jove has vouchsafed to him. 
Sucli' air}' board and lodging is, however, distasteful to many ; 
who prefer, therefore, to give up their poetical calling, and, 
in a vulgar beef-eating world, to feed upon and fight for vulgar 
beef. 

For such persons (among the class of painters), it may be 
asserted that portrait-painting was invented. It is the Artist's 
compromise with heaven ; " the light of common day," in which, 
after a certain quantity of " travel from the East," the genius 
fades at last. Abbe Barthelemy (who sent Le Jeune Anachar- 
sis travelling through Greece in the time of Plato, — travelling 
through ancient Greece in lace ruffles, red heels, and a pigtail), 
— Aljbe Barthelemy, I say, declares that somebody was once 
standing against a wall in the sun, and that somebody else 
traced the outline of somebody's shadow ; and so painting was 
" invented." Angelica Kauffmann has made a neat picture of 
this neat subject ; and very w^ell worthy she was of handling it. 
Her painting might grow out of a wall and a piece of charcoal ; 
and honest Barthelemy might be satisfied that he had here traced 
the true origin of the art. What a base pedigree have these 
abominable Greek, French, and High-Dutch heathens invented 
for that which is divine ! — a wall, ye gods, to be represented 
as the father of that which came down radiant from you ! The 
man who invented such a blasphemy, ought to be impaled upon 
broken bottles, or shot off pitilessly by spring-guns, nailed to 
the bricks like a dead owl or a weasel, or tied up — a kind of 
vulgar Prometheus — and baited forever by the house-dog. 

But let not our indignation carry us too far. Lack of genius 
in some, of bread in others, of patronage in a shop-keeping 
world, that thinks only of the useful, and is little inclined to 
study the sublime, has turned thousands of persons calling 
themselves, and wishing to be, Artists, into so many common 
face-painters, who must look out for the " kalon " in the fat 
features of a red-gilled Alderman, or, at best, in a pretty, sim- 
pering, white-necked beauty from " Almack's." The dangerous 
charms of these latter, especially, have seduced away many 
painters ; and we often think that this very physical superiority 
which English ladies possess, this tempting brilliancy of health 
and complexion, which belongs to them more than to any 
others, has operated upon our Artists as a serious disadvan- 



352 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

tage, and kept them from better things. The French call such 
beaut3' " Za Beaiite du Diahle ;"" and a devilish power it has 
truly ; before our Armidas and Helens how man}^ Rinaldos and 
Parises have fallen, who are content to forget their glorious 
calling, and slumber away their energies in the laps of these 
soft tempters. O ye British enchantresses ! I never see a 
gilded annual-book, without likening it to a small island near 
Cape Pelorus, in Sicily, whither, by twanging of harps, singing 
of ravishing melodies, glancing of voluptuous e3^es, and the 
most beautiful fashionable undress in the world, the naught}' 
sirens lured the passing seaman. Steer clear of them, 3^e Ar- 
tists ! pull, pull for your lives, ye crews of Suffolk Street and 
the Water-Color gallery ! stop your ears, bury your eyes, tie 
yourselves to the mast, and away with you from the gaudy, 
smiling " Books of Beauty." Laud, and you are ruined ! Look 
well among the flowers on 3'onder beach — it is whitened with 
the bones of painters. 

For m3^ part, I never have a model under seventy, and her 
with several shawls and a cloak on. B3' these means the imagi- 
nation gets fair pla3', and the morals remain unendangered. 

Personalities are odious ; but let the British public look at 
the pictures of the celebrated Mr. Shalloon — the moral British 
public — and say whether our grandchildren (or the grandchil- 
dren of the exalted personages whom Mr. Shalloon paints) will 
not have a queer idea of the manners of their grandmammas, 
as they are represented in the most beautiful, dexterous, capti- 
vating water-color drawings that ever were ? Heavenly pow- , 
ers, how the3^ simper and ogle ! with what gimcracks of lace, 
ribbons, ferronieres, smelhng-bottles, and what not, is ever3^ one 
of them overloaded ! What shoulders, what ringlets, what funn3^ 
little pug-dogs do the3' most of them exhibit to us ! The days 
of Lancret and Watteau are lived over again, and the court 
ladies of the time of Queen Victoria look as moral as the im- 
maculate countesses of the days of Louis Quinze. The last 
President of the Royal Academy * is answerable for man}' sins, 
and many imitators ; espe.ciall3' for that ga3', simpering, mere- 
tricious look which he managed to give to every lady who sat 
to him for her portrait ; and I do not know a more curious con- 
trast than that which ma3' be perceived by any one who will 
examine a collection of his portraits by the side of some b3^ Sir 
Joshua Reynolds. They seem to have painted different races 
of people ; and when one hears very old gentlemen talking of 
the superior beaut3^ that existed in their earl3^ da3's (as very 
* Sir Thomas Lawrence. 



THE ARTISTS. 353 

old gentlemen, from Nestor downwards, have and will), one is 
inclined to believe that there is some truth in what they say ; 
at least, that the men and women under George the Third were 
far superior to their descendants in the time of George the 
Fourth. Whither has it fled — that calm matronly grace, or 
beautiful virgin innocence, which belonged to the happy women 
who sat to Sir Joshua? Sir Thomas's ladies are ogling out of 
their gilt frames, and asking us for admiration ; Sir Joshua's 
sit quiet, in maiden meditation fancy free, not anxious for ap- 
plause, but sure to command it ; a thousand times more lovely 
in their sedate serenity than Sir Thomas's ladies in their smiles, 
and their satin ball-dresses. 

But this is not the general notion, and the ladies prefer the 
manner of the modern Artist. Of course, such being the case, 
the painters must follow the fashion. One could point out 
half a dozen Artists who, at Sir Thomas's death, have seized 
upon a shred of his somewhat tawdr}' mantle. There is Car- 
mine, for instance, a man of no small repute, who will stand as 
the representative of his class. 

Carmine has had the usual education of a painter in this 
country ; he can read and write — that is, has spent 3'ears 
drawing the figure — and has made his foreign tour. It may 
be that he had original talent once, but he has learned to forget 
this, as the great bar to his success ; and must imitate, in order 
to live. He is among Artists what a dentist is among sur- 
geons — a man who is employed to decorate the human head, 
and who is paid enormously for so doing. You know one of 
Carmine's beauties at any exhibition, and see the process by 
which the}^ are manufactured. He lengthens the noses, widens 
the foreheads, opens the eyes, and gives them the proper lan- 
guishing leer ; diminishes the mouth, and infallibly tips the 
ends of it with a pretty smile of his favorite color. He is a 
personable, white-handed, bald-headed, middle-aged man now, 
with that grave blandness of look which one sees in so many 
prosperous empty-headed people. He has a collection of little 
stories and court gossip about Lady This, and " my particular 
friend. Lord So-and-so," which he lets off in succession to every 
sitter: indeed, a most bland, irreproachable, gentlemanlike 
man. He gives most patronizing advice to young Artists, and 
makes a point of praising all — not certainly too much, but in 
a gentlemanlike, indifferent, simpering way. This should be 
the maxim with prosperous persons, who have had to make 
their way, and wish to keep what they have made. They 
praise everybody, and are called good-natured, benevolent men. 



354 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

Surelj' no benevolence is so eas}^ ; it sinipl}- consists in lying, 
and smiling, and wishing eveiybod}^ well. You will get to do 
so quite naturally at last, and at no expense of truth. At first, 
when a man has feelings of his own — feelings of love or of 
anger — this perpetual grin and good-humor is hard to main- 
tain. I used to imagine, when I first knew Carmine, that there 
were some particular springs in his wig (that gloss}^ oil}^, curly 
crop of chestnut hair) that pulled up his features into a smile, 
and kept the muscles so fixed for the day. I don't think so 
now, and should say he grinned, even when he was asleep and 
his teeth were out ; the smile does not lie in the manufacture 
of the wig, but in the construction of the brain. Claude Car- 
mine has the organ of dont'Care-a-damn-ativeness wonderfully 
developed ; not that reckless don't-care-a-damn-ativeness which 
leads a man to disregard all the world, and himself into the 
bargain. Claude stops before he comes to himself; but bej^ond 
that individual member of the Roj'al Academy, has not a single 
sympathy for a single human creature. The account of his 
friends' deaths, woes, misfortunes, or good luck, he receives 
with equal good-nature ; lie gives three splendid dinners per 
annum, Gunter, Dukes, Fortnum, and Mason, everything; he 
dines out the other three hundred and sixt3^-two days in the 
year, and was never known to give away a shilling, or to ad- 
vance, for one half-hour, the fort3' pounds per quarter wages 
that he gives to Mr. Scumble, who works the backgrounds, 
limbs, and draperies of his portraits. 

He is not a good painter : how should he be ; whose paint- 
ing as it w^ere never goes be3'ond a whisper, and who would 
make a general simpering as he looked at an advancing can- 
non-ball? — but he is not a bad painter, being a keen respect- 
able man of the world, who has a cool head, and knows what 
is what. In France, where tigerism used to be the fashion 
among the painters, I make no doubt Carmine would have let 
his beard and wig grow, and looked the fiercest of the fierce ; 
but with us a man must be genteel ; the perfection of style (in 
writing and in drawing-rooms) being " de ne pas en avoir ^'' 
Carmine of course is agreeabl}^ vapid. His conversation has 
accordingly the flavor and briskness of a clear, brilliant, stale 
bottle of soda-water, — once in five minutes or so, jou see 
rising up to the surface a little bubble — a little tin}' shining 
point of wdt, — it rises and explodes feebl}', and then dies. 
With regard to wit, people of fashion (as we are given to un- 
derstand) are satisfied with a mere soupgon of it. Anything 
more were indecorous ; a genteel stomach could not bear it : 



THE ARTISTS. 35o 

Carmine knows the exact proportions of the dose, and would 
not venture to administer to his sitters anythmg beyond the 

requisite quantit}^ , ^ r^ • fi « 

There is a great deal more said here about Carmine — tiie 
man, than Carmine — the Artist ; but what can be written about 
the latter' New ladies in white satin, new Generals in red, new 
Peers in scarlet and ermine, and stout Members of ParUament 
pointino;to inkstands and sheets of letter-paper, with a Turkey- 
carpet beneath them, a red curtain above them, a Doric pillar 
supportino- them, and a tremendous storm of thunder and light- 
ning lowering and flashing in the background, spring up every 
year, and take their due positions '^ upon the hne in the 
Academv, and send their compliments of hundreds to swell 
Carmine's heap of Consols. If he paints Lady Flummery for 
the tenth time, in the character of the tenth Muse, what need 
have we to say anything about it? The man is a good work- 
man and will manufacture a decent article at the best price ; 
but we should no more think of noticing each, than of writing 
fresh critiques upon every new coat that Nugee or Stultz turned 
out The papers say, in reference to his picture "No 591. 
* Full-length portrait of her Grace the Duchess of Doldrum. 
Carmine R A.' Mr. Carmine never fails ; this work, like all 
others, by the same artist, is excellent :" — or, "No. 591, &c. 
The lovely Duchess of Doldrum has received from Mr. Carmine s 
pencil ample justice ; the chiar' oscuro of the picture is perfect ; 
the likeness admirable ; the keeping and coloring have the true 
Titianesque gusto ; if we might hint a fault, it has the left ear 
of the lap-dog a ' little ' out of drawing." 

Then, perhaps, comes a criticism which says:— ihe 
Duchess of Doldrum's picture by Mr. Carmine is neither better 
nor worse than five hundred other performances of the same 
artist. It would be very unjust to say that these portraits are 
bad, for they have really a considerable cleverness ; but to say 
that they were good, would be quite as false ; nothing in our 
eyes was ever further from being so. Every ten years Mr. 
Carmine exhibits what is called an original picture of three 
inches square, but beyond this, nothing original is to be found in 
him : as a lad? he copied Reynolds, then Opie, then Lawrence ; 
then having made a sort of style of his own, he has copied him- 
self ever since," &c. , , . .. ^ 
And then the critic goes on to consider the various parts ot 
Carmine's pictures. In speaking of critics, their pecuUar rela- 
tionship with painters ought not to be forgotten ; and as in a 
former paper we have seen how a fashionable authoress has he* 



356 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

critical toadies, in like manner has the painter his enemies and 
friends in the press ; with this difference, probablj^, that the 
writer can bear a fair quantity of abuse without wincing, while 
the artist not uncommonly grows mad at such strictures, con- 
siders them as personal matters, inspired by a private feeling 
of hostility, and hates the critic for life who has ventured to 
question his judgment in any way. We have said before, poor 
Academicians, for how man}^ conspiracies are 3'Ou made to 
answer ! We ma}' add now, poor critics, what black personal 
animosities are discovered for 3'ou, when \'ou happen (right or 
wrong, but according to 3'our best ideas) to speak the truth ! 
Sa}' that Snooks's picture is badly colored. — " O heavens ! " 
shrieks Snooks, " what can I have done to offend this fellow?" 
Hint that such a figure is badly drawn — and Snooks instantly 
declares you to be his personal enem}^ actuated only by env}^ 
and vile pique. M}^ friend Pebbler, himself a famous Artist, 
is of opinion that the critic should never abuse the painter's 
performances, because, sa3"s he, the painter knows much better 
than any one else what his own faults are, and because 3^ou 
never do him an3^ good. Are men of the brush so obstinate? — 
ver3' likely : but the public — the pubhc ? are we not to do our 
dut3" by it too ; and, aided by our superior knowledge and 
genius for the fine arts, point out to it the way it should go? 
Yes, surel3' ; and as b3^ the efforts of dull or interested critics 
many bad painters have been palmed off upon the nation as 
geniuses of the first degree ; in like manner, the sagacious and 
disinterested (like some we could name) have endeavored to 
provide this British nation with pure principles of taste, — or 
at least, to prevent them from adopting such as are impure. 

Carmine, to be sure, comes in for very little abuse ; and, 
indeed, he deserves but little. He is a fashionable painter, 
and preserves the golden mediocrit3' which is necessary for the 
fashion. Let us bid him good-by. He lives in a house all to 
himself, most likely, — has a footman, sometimes a carriage; 
is apt to belong to the " Athenneum ; " and dies universall3' 
respected ; that is, not one single soul cares for him dead, as 
he, living, did not care for one single soul. 

Then, perhaps, we should mention M'Gilp, or Blather, ris- 
ing 3'oung men, who will fill Carmine's place one of these days, 

and occupy his house in , when the fulness of time shall 

come, and (he borne to a narrow grave in the Harrow Road 
hy the whole mourning Ro3"al Academy,) they shall leave their 
present first floor in Newman Street, and step into his very 
house and shoes. 



THE ARTISTS. 357 

There is little diflference between the juniors and the sen- 
iors ; the}' grin when the}' are talking of him together, and ex- 
press a perfect confidence that the}' can paint a head against 
Carmine any day — as very likely they can. But until his de- 
mise, they are occupied with painting people about the Regent's 
Park and Russell Square ; are very glad to have the chance of 
a popular clergyman, or a college tutor, or a mayor of Stoke 
Poges after the Reform Bill. Such characters are commonly 
mezzotinted afterwards ; and the portrait of our esteemed towns- 
man So-and-so, by that talented artist Mr. M'Gilp, of London, 
is favorably noticed by the provincial press, and is to be found 
over the sideboards of many country gentlemen. If they come 
up to town, to whom do they go? To M'Gilp, to be sure; 
and thus, slowly, his practice and his prices increase. 

The Academy student is a personage that should not be 
omitted here ; he resembles very much, outwardly, the medical 
student, and has many of the latter' s habits and pleasures. 
He very often wears a broad-brimmed hat and a fine dirty 
crimson velvet waistcoat, his hair commonly grows long, and 
he has braiding to his pantaloons. He works leisurely at the 
Academy, he loves theatres, billiards, and novels, and has his 
house-of- call somewhere in the neighborhood of Saint Martin's 
Lane, where he and his brethren meet and sneer at Royal 
Academicians. If you ask him what line of art he pursues, 
he answers with a smile exceedingly supercilious, "Sir, lam 
an historical painter ; " meaning that he will only condescend 
to take subjects from Hume, or Robertson, or from the classics 
— which he knows nothing about. This stage of an historical 
painter is only preparatory, lasting perhaps from eighteen to 
five-and-twenty, when the gentleman's madness begins to dis- 
appear, and he comes to look at life sternly in the face, and 
to learn that man shall not live by historical painting alone. 
Then our friend falls to portrait-painting, or annual-painting, 
or makes some other such sad compromise with necessity. 

He has probably a small patrimony, which defrays the charge 
of his studies and cheap pleasures during his period of ap- 
prenticeship. He makes the oblige tour to France and Italy, 
and returns from those countries with a multitude of spoiled 
canvases, and a large pair of moustaches, with which he es- 
tablishes himself in one of the dingy streets of Soho before 
mentioned. There is poor Pipson, a man of indomitable pa- 
tience, and undying enthusiasm for his profession. He could 
paper Exeter Hall with his studies from the Hfe, and with por 
traits in chalk and oil of French sapeurs and Italians brigands. 



858 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

that kindl}' descend from their mountain-caverns, and quit their 
murderous occupations, in order to sit to young ger.tlemen at 
Rome, at the rate of tenpence an hour. Pipson returns from 
abroad, estabUshes himself, has his cards printed, and waits 
Mnd waits for commissions for great historical pictures. Mean- 
while, night after night,' he is to be found at his old place in 
the Academ}', copying the old life-guardsman — working, work- 
ing awa}^ — and never advancing one jot. At eighteen, Pipson 
copied statues and life-guardsmen to admiration ; at five-ancl- 
thirt}^ he can make admirable drawings of life-guardsmen and 
statues. Be3'ond this he never goes ; year after year his his- 
torical picture is returned to him by the envious Academicians, 
and he grows old, and his little patrimon}^ is long since spent ; 
and he earns nothing himself. How does he support hope and 
life ? — that is the wonder. No one knows until he tries (which 
God forbid he should !) upon what a small matter hope and 
life can be supported. Our poor fellow lives on from 3'ear to 
year in a miraculous way ; tolerabl}^ cheerful in the midst of his 
semi-starvation, and wonderfully confident about next 3'ear, in 
spite of the failures of the last twentj^-five. Let us thank God 
for imparting to us, poor weak mortals, the inestimable blessing 
oi vanity. How many half-witted votaries of the arts — poets, 
painters, actors, musicians — live upon this food, and scarcely 
any other ! If the delusion were to drop from Pipson's eyes, 
and he should see himself as he is, — if some malevolent genius 
were to mingle wilh his feeble brains one fatal particle of 
common sense, — he would just walk off Waterloo Bridge, and 
abjure poverty, incapacit}', cold lodgings, unpaid baker's bills, 
ragged elbows, and deferred hopes, at once and for ever. 

We do not mean to depreciate the profession of historical 
painting, but simph' to warn 3'Outh against it as dangerous and 
unprofitable. It is as if a 3'oung fellow should sa3^, " I will be 
a Raffaelle or a Titian, — a Milton or a Shakspeare," and if 
he will count up how many people have lived since the world 
began, and how many there have been of the Raffaelle or 
Shakspeare sort, he can calculate to a nicet3' what are the 
chances in his favor. Even successful historical painters, what 
are they ? — in a worldly point of view, the3^ mostly inhabit the 
second floor, or have great desolate studios in back premises, 
whither life-guardsmen, old-clothesmen, blackamoors, and other 
" properties" are conducted, to figure at full length as Roman 
conquerors, Jewish high-priests, or Othellos on canvas. Then 
there are gay, smart, water-color painters, — a flourishing and 
pleasant trade. Then there are shabby, fierce-looking geniuses, 



THE ARTISTS. 359 

in ringlets, and all but rags, who paint, and whose pictures are 
never sold, and who vow the}^ are the objects of some general 
and scoundrell}^ conspiracy. There are landscape-painters, 
who travel to the uttermost ends of the earth and brave heat 
and cold, to bring to the greedy British public views of Cairo, 
Calcutta, St. Petersburg, Timbuctoo. You see English artists 
under the shadow of the Pyramids, making sketches of the 
Copts, perohed on the backs of dromedaries, accompanying a 
caravan across the desert, or getting materials for an annual 
in Iceland or Siberia. What genius and what energy do not 
they all exhibit — these men, whose profession, in this wise 
countr}' of ours, is scarcely considered as liberal ! 

If we read tjie works of the Reverend Dr. Lempriere, Mon- 
sieur Winckelmann, Professor Plato, and others who have 
written co.^icerning the musty old Grecians, we shall find that 
the Artists of those barbarous times meddled with all sorts of 
trades besides their own, and dabbled in fighting, philosophy, 
metaphj^sics, both Scotch and German, politics, music, and the 
deuce knows what. A rambling sculptor, who used to go about 
giving lect jres in those days, Socrates by name, declared that 
the wisest of men in his time were artists. This Plato, before 
mentioned, went through a regular course of drawing, figure 
and landscape, black-lead, chalk, with or without stump, sepia, 
water-color, and oils. Was there ever such absurdity known? 
Among these benighted heathens, painters were the most ac- 
complished gentlemen, — and the most accomplished gentlemen 
were painters ; the former would make you a speech, oi* read 
3''ou a dissertation on Kant, or lead you a regiment, — with the 
verj^ best statesman, philosopher, or soldier in Athens. And 
they had the folly to say, that by thus busying and accom- 
plishing themselves in all manly studies, they were advancing 
eminently in their own peculiar one. What was the conse- 
quence ? Why, that fellow Socrates not only made a miserable 
fifth-rate sculptor, but was actually hanged for treason. 

And serve him right. Do our 3'oung artists stud}^ anything 
beyond the proper way of cutting a pencil, or drawing a model? 
Do you hear of them hard at work over books, and bothering 
their brains with musty learning? Not they, forsooth: we 
understand the doctrine of division of labor, and each man 
sticks to his trade. Artists do not meddle with the pursuits of 
the rest of the world ; and, in revenge, the rest of the vrorld 
does not meddle with Artists. Fancy an Artist being a senior 
wrangler or a politician ; and on the other hand, fancy a real 
gentleman turned painter! No, no; ranks are defined. A 



360 CHARACTER SKETCHES. 

real gentleman may get mone}^ by the law, or by wearing a red 
coat and fighting, or a black one and preaching ; but that he 
should sell himself to Art — forbid it, heaven ! And do not let 
your ladyship on reading this cry, " Stuff! — stupid env}^ rank 
republicanism, — an artist is a gentleman." Madam, would 
3^ou like to see 3'our son, the Honorable Fitzroy Plantagenet, a 
painter ? You would die sooner ; the escutcheon of the Smig- 
smags would be blotted for ever, if Plantagenet ever ventured 
to make a mercantile use of a bladder of paint. 

Time was — some hundred years back — M^hen writers lived 
in Grub Street, and poor ragged Johnson shrunk behind a screen 
in Cave's parlor — that the author's trade was considered a 
very mean one ; which a gentleman of family could not take 
up but as an amateur. This absurdit}^ is prett}' nearl}^ worn 
out now, and I do humbl}' hope and pra}' for the day when the 
other shall likewise disappear. If there be any nobleman with 
a talent that way, why — why don't we see him among the 
R.A.'s? 

501. The Schoohnaster. Sketch ) Brum, Henry, Lord, 72.^. F./?^. aS.^. 

taken abroad ) of the National Institute of France. 

502. View^_the Artist's residence | Maconkey, Right Honorable T. B. 

503. Murder of the Babes in the ) Rustle, Lord J. 

Tower ) Pill, Right Honorable Sir Robert. 

504. A httle Agitation .... O'Carrol, Daniel, M.R.I.A. 

Fancy, I say, such names as these figuring in the catalogue 
of the Academy : and why should they not? The real glorious 
days of the art (which wants equality and not patronage) will 
revive then. Patronage — a plague on the word !— it im- 
plies inferiority ; and in the name of all that is sensible, why is 
a respectable country gentleman, or a city attorney's lady, or 
any person of any rank, however exalted, to "patronize" an 
Artist ! 

There are some who sigh for the past times, when magnifi- 
cent, swaggering Peter Paul Rubens (who himself patronized a 
queen) rode abroad with a score of gentlemen in his train, and 
a purse-bearer to scatter ducats ; and who love to think how he 
was made an English knight and a Spanish grandee, and went 
of embassies as if he had been a born marquis. Sweet it is to 
remember, too, that Sir Antony Vandyck, K.B., actually mar- 
ried out of the peerage: and that when Titian dropped his 
mahlstick, the Emperor Charles V. picked it up (O gods ! what 
heroic self-devotion) — picked it up, saying, " I can make fifty 



THE ARTISTS. obi 

dukes, but not one Titian." Nay, was not the Pope of Rome 
going to make Raffaelle a Cardinal, — and were not these 
golden days ? 

Let us say at once " No." The very fuss made about cer- 
tain painters in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries shows 
that the body of artists had no rank or position in the world. 
They hung upon single patrons : and every man who holds his 
place by such a tenure, must feel himself an inferior, more or 
less. The times are changing now, and as authors are no longer 
compelled to send .their works abroad under the guardianship 
of a great man and a slavish dedication, painters, too, are 
beginning to deal directly with the public. Who are the great 
picture-buj-ers now? — the engravers and their employers, the 
people, — "the only source of legitimate power," as they say 
after dinner. A fig then for Cardinals' hats ! w^ere Mr. O'Con- 
nell in power to-morrow, let us hope he would not give one, 
not even a paltry bishopric in partihus^ to the best yiainter in 
the Academy. What need have they of honors out of the pro- 
fession? Why are they to be be-knighted like a parcel of alder- 
men? — for my part, I solemnly declare, that I will take nothing 
under a peerage, after the exhibition of my great picture, and 
don't see, if painters must have titles conferred upon them for 
eminent services, wh}^ the Marquis of Mulread}' or the Earl of 
Landseer should not sit in the house as well as an}- law or sol- 
dier lord. 

The truth to be elicited from this little digressive dissertation 
is this painful one, — that young Artists are not general^ as 
well instructed as they should be ; and let the Royal Academy 
look to it, and give some sound courses of lectures to their 
pupils on literature and histor}', as well as on anatomy, or light 
and shade* 



THE END. 



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